Behind the Berlin Wall
by hetaliasanguis
Summary: After the Axis Powers are defeated in World War II, Prussia becomes Russia's prisoner in the Soviet Union. Dark!Hetalia fic, some PruHun in later chapters (nothing explicit). T for language, blood, violence.
1. Chapter 1

Berlin was burning.

All around them were the sounds of rejoicing as the surviving Russian soldiers, waving their guns in elation and lifting their voices in shouts of relief and joy, swarmed out of the destroyed city like ants.

Ludwig Beilschmidt stood, stony-faced, unmoving and unresisting as America and England forced him to his knees in the snow and bound his hands behind his back. His bloodless face, fierce and stoic, was illuminated by the flames of the burning city, and only his set jaw and shaking hands betrayed his carefully controlled anger and grief. He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his temple that he had made no effort to stem.

His brother, feet firmly planted and a gun in his hand, stood a few yards away. His black uniform was ripped and dirty, the Iron Cross medal around his neck hanging barely by a thread. He was more heavily wounded than his brother, with a deep slash across his cheek narrowly missing his eye as well as all over his arms and torso, and he was swaying a little on his feet from the blood loss, but he backed away slowly, eyes bright, as China and France advanced gradually on him.

His teeth were gritted, his fists clenched, and anguish, hatred and rage written plainly all over his pale features. "_Verdammt_, West," he spat at his brother, whose emotionless expression did not change in response to the words. "Thanks a lot for just giving up."

He lifted the gun while continuing to back away, aimed carefully, and fired it. The bullet ripped through China's shoulder and the black-haired nation fell to the ground with a loud cry; Prussia gave a high-pitched laugh, triumphant, and threw the now empty gun away as France ran at him. In a moment he had knocked the blond nation down and pinned him to the ground, hands around his throat. His red eyes were flashing, bright and hungry with the bloodlust he still held from his days as the Teutonic Knights as he slammed France's head repeatedly into the frozen ground.

Somewhere behind him he could hear shouting, whether directed at France or himself he could not tell, and he had no idea who was speaking; it might have been his brother or one of the Allies for all he cared. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, making him drunk off the fight.

Then, suddenly, he felt hands close around his own neck from behind, and he was lifted bodily away from France, who rose shakily to his feet and stumbled away to stand beside America, Germany, and England.

_Fuck. Russia_.

He knew as he thrashed desperately against the cold, powerful hands that he had made a key tactical error. He had not kept track of all his enemies.

His foot made contact with flesh behind him, and, with satisfaction, he heard the answering grunt of pain. Russia, angered by this, hurled Gilbert to the icy ground. He hit hard, facedown, the wind knocked out of him, and felt something crack—most likely one of his ribs. Slightly dazed from hitting his head against the ground, he rolled over onto his back to catch his breath, and Russia placed a heavy brown boot on his neck with a careful gentleness that made it clear he could snap the smaller nation's neck without much trouble. He increased the pressure slightly as Prussia twisted beneath his foot, trying to get away.

Prussia's side hurt badly and he drew shallow breaths, trying to regain level breathing. He gritted his teeth, tasting blood, and realized that his mouth and nose were both bleeding as well from the contact with the ground.

Russia turned away to give a contemptuous glance at France and China, both of whom were bleeding and looked slightly stunned at the speed with which Russia had brought Prussia down.

"It is not really so hard, da?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "I really do not know what took you so long."

Prussia seized his momentary distraction as an opportunity to reach for his gun, thrown away nearby—bullets or no, it would be something to hit with. Russia, feeling him move, immediately turned back and moved his foot to the outstretched arm and pressed down with all his weight. There was a sickening crack as the bone broke, and Prussia gave a cry of agony.

"Good," said America behind him, with some satisfaction. "Bring him over here, Russia, with his brother."

Russia looked down at the small nation lying in the bloodstained snow, then carefully moved his foot again, this time to his wrist, and pressed—enough to cause a sharp intake of breath from Prussia, but not enough to break the bone.

"Do you surrender at last, little East Germany?" he inquired, his voice holding a frightening tone of childish innocence. "Or do I have to keep on hurting you? I don't want to have to hurt you more than I have to, you know."

"Fuck you," hissed Prussia, and reached with his good hand to try to pull away Russia's foot. Russia aimed a vicious kick at his already bloody face, causing his head to snap back and his eyes to momentarily roll back in his skull. Then he moved his foot back and stamped down, snapping the wrist and hearing the responding cry of pain with a faint smile. Prussia's face was bleeding from new wounds now as well as from the cut under his eye, and a purplish bruise was already beginning to show under his pale skin.

"I will break both of your arms if I have to, little one," Russia informed him, in a voice that, had it been saying anything else, might have been perceived as kind—even loving. "I will break your whole body if that is what it takes, _da_? Surrender now."

"Gilbert," cried Germany, the first words his brother had heard from him since he had surrendered. "Please, there's no way you'll win now—please, you'll only be hurt worse— You Commie bastard, leave my brother alone—"

The words made Prussia's blood boil—such a suggestion, coming from _his_ brother, from a Beilschmidt? Surrender, him? Not likely.

Russia knelt in the snow beside him, no longer even holding him down. Prussia was disgusted with himself to find that he could barely raise himself on his one good arm; the kick to his head in addition to the blow he had received from being thrown to the ground had left him stunned, and he could barely focus his eyes. Everything was beginning to go dark. Russia, amused at his attempt to lift himself, pushed him back down and held him there easily, with one hand on his chest, as he fought for consciousness.

"Well? Do you surrender, little one?"

"Just bring him over here, Ivan," America repeated, slightly more insistent now. "There's no need."

Breathing was horribly difficult and each breath pained his broken rib—unless more than one was broken, Prussia realized, trying to search the pain out more carefully. Yes, he was fairly sure now that it was at least two, if not more. Even the slight pressure on his chest was enough to make the pain worse and his breathing tortuous.

"_Ivan_," he heard from America, frustrated now at the repeated disobedience, "just bring him over here—"

Russia leaned over Prussia, smiling, reaching out to wipe away the blood from his face with his thumb. His boot had left a dirty, ragged scrape across Prussia's cheek and chin and the wound was bleeding heavily into the snow. Prussia, scarcely able to move, spat his blood in the other nation's face defiantly.

Russia's face changed, the humor drained in one heart-stopping second that, albeit for only a second, made Prussia regret his rash decision and wish he had surrendered when given the opportunity.

He reached up and wiped away the bloody saliva from his face with the back of a gloved hand, then aimed a vicious punch at the smaller man's stomach and Prussia, coughing blood and gasping, curled up instinctively in an attempt to protect himself against further blows, jarring his broken arm excruciatingly in the process.

"I have had it with you, little one," Russia informed him, and his hands once again closed around the white-haired nation's neck with terrifying strength—this time aiming to strangle, not merely to restrain. "You are one of the most stubborn nation I have ever encountered. And I will break you, little one—I swear I will break you."

He yanked him up into a sitting position, to his knees, and then to his feet; Prussia, who could barely stand on his own and could only use one arm, pulled weakly at his hands with one hand and tried to kick him without much success. The punch to the stomach had knocked the wind out of him, and already he was desperate for air, the edges of his vision going dark, his lungs screaming for oxygen.

Russia, frustrated at his continued resistance, lifted him by the neck entirely off his feet, holding him above his head with his thrashing feet well above the ground. Prussia was choking, his already deathly-pale lips beginning to turn blue.

Vaguely, Gilbert could hear his brother shouting his name, could see him fighting now against the restraining hands of America and England; he could hear America, too, shouting, ordering Russia to let him go. His vision was going dark and his legs were too numb to continue trying to kick Russia.

At last the huge nation dropped him, before he lost consciousness completely, and he crumpled to the ground at his feet and lay still.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Please let me know what you think! This is my first story and I'm excited about it, but I'd really like some feedback! I've got another chapter coming very soon._

_I just wanted to write a good Dark!Hetalia fic with these two that _didn't_ end up with them falling in love or having sex; I just really wanted violence and angst and crap. I hope I'm not the only one who thinks so. I'm a bit in love with dear Gilbert and so I enjoy torturing him . . . um. Yeah. :[_

_Anyway, rate and review! Thank you already, and thank you for taking the time to read my story and the author's note, if you've gotten this far! :D_

_Warning . . . some events might not be historically accurate. But if there's something that bothers you, please let me know and I'll be happy to change it!_

**Russian translation  
****da** = yes**  
**

**German translations  
****Verdammt **= damn it  
**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

When he awoke, he was in complete darkness and he had no sense of how much time had passed. He could tell, vaguely, that someone had bandaged most of his wounds and set his broken arm and wrist.

He assumed that he had been brought to one of his family member's houses to recuperate from his wounds, and for a moment considered calling—to West, to somebody—to ask what had happened, what war reparations had to be paid and to whom. But something made him hesitate.

He moved to get up, to see if he was able to walk, and to his alarm found his movement arrested. Whoever had cared for his wounds had tied him to the bed with ropes around his wrists and ankles, and he was unable to move.

At once his heart began to beat very fast. He had no idea where he was and he was genuinely frightened. He forced himself to lie still, to breathe evenly, slow his heartbeat, and calm himself down.

To pass the time and take his mind off his circumstances—no point on worrying about them if he could not change them—he entertained himself by counting his wounds. The deep, ragged scrape across his chin and cheek from the kick. The broken arm, wrist, and rib or ribs. His nose was likely broken as well. Countless bruises all over his torso and his arms and minor cuts and scrapes; a much deeper stab wound in his side. A cut lip and large, painful bruise from being slammed into the ground. The slash across his face, by his eye—the bandage there ran across his eye, which annoyed him because it rendered him blind in one eye and completely destroyed his depth perception.

That was all he could feel at the moment. He'd had worse, he reassured himself, pushing the small voice saying _Not all at the same time_ to the back of his mind.

He could still taste blood from his cut lip inside his mouth and all at once the taste, one he had been forced to experience many times before, nauseated him. He wanted desperately to move. He had been lying still for he had no idea how long. If he was a prisoner— but no, the idea was unthinkable. He could not be a prisoner. Better to have died in battle, with honor, than to remain alive in the custody of an enemy.

Maybe he had just been tied down because he had been thrashing in his sleep, he reasoned; he had always been a fitful sleeper, and he had a vague uncomfortable recollection of horrific nightmares from the darkness out of which he had only just emerged. Maybe the ropes were there merely for his own good, so that he would not too badly jar his broken bones. This idea calmed him down slightly, though he had to admit in the back of his mind that he did not really believe it himself.

His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, but this did not help him much; he was in a sparsely decorated bedroom which was entirely unfamiliar to him. He could do nothing with this information while tied down. Once again he considered calling out, then decided against it; if he really was a prisoner, then he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as was possible while he figured out how to escape quickly and efficiently.

This decision made, he turned to other, more immediate concerns. He was too cold, he realized, and extremely thirsty. He looked down and realized that he was shirtless, wearing only black pants; someone had clearly removed his tattered and bloody SS uniform to better clean his wounds. If he strained to lift his head, he could see the bandages all over his torso, some of them slightly stained with the blood that had leaked through. The wound on his side, despite heavy wrapping, had soaked the white bandages well through, staining the white sheets beneath him crimson. He was shivering miserably. There was a blanket at the foot of the bed, but he was unable to reach for it; he wished unhappily that someone had thought to pull it over him. The ropes were beginning to chafe badly at his wrists and ankles, rubbing his pale skin raw.

All at once there was a click by the door and the room was flooded with light; Prussia, who had been attempting to lift his head, immediately laid it back down again with an involuntary hiss of pain, the light hurting his red eyes which had only just finished properly adjusting to the darkness of the room. If he squinted, he could make out the form of a figure approaching the bed—again, nobody he recognized. Blinking in the light as his eyes tried to adjust back, he could tell that whoever it was had short blonde hair and was dressed plainly in white and blue. She also had a very large chest, he could not help but notice. At any rate, he had never seen her before in his life. She was carrying a basin in her hands and had a bag slung over one shoulder.

As she leaned over him, reaching for the bandage over his eye to check on his wounds, she saw that his visible eye was open and jumped a little.

"Oh! You're—you're conscious, I see!" she said, a tad anxiously, withdrawing her hand from his forehead. Her cool hand, despite the cold, had felt pleasant; Prussia realized he must be burning with fever. "Ah—how are you feeling?"

Prussia tried to move his head again. The combination of the blows to the head—he thought he might have a concussion—and the sudden, seemingly blinding light had given him a horrendous headache and made it very difficult to marshal his thoughts.

"Uh . . . who . . . what . . ."

The blonde girl smiled at him as she reached over to remove the bandage across his eye again, tugging a little as the fabric caught in the dried blood. Prussia winced and she bit her lip. "Sorry," she apologized. "I'm just going to clean this cut again, okay? And then some of the other ones—especially that bad one on your side."

"W-who are you?"

"My name is Ukraine." Her voice was not unkind; the contrast to what he had expected, if indeed he'd had any idea of what to expect, only made it harder to figure out what he was trying to think. "You can call me Ekaterina, or just Kat if you'd like."

Ukraine. He thought maybe he had met her before after all, possibly as a child. The name was certainly not unfamiliar, but the face was not one that he had seen recently.

" 'Kay," he muttered, unable to think of where he had seen or heard of her before. "Kat. 'M Gilbert."

She smiled, pleased. "I've been taking care of you, Gilbert," she informed him as she adjusted another one of the bandages. "Well, at least I've been washing all of the wounds. Eduard was the one to set your broken bones, and Toris has been helping me out a bit when I need him to. He's been the one giving you the sedatives."

_Toris_—that was another name he thought he had heard before, but one he was still too foggy to place. He was unsure if he had ever heard the name Eduard before. "How long've I been asleep?"

"It's been six days already."

"_Six?"_

She nodded earnestly. "You were supposed to be asleep still—we've been keeping you sedated so that you can recover better, and so that you won't try to . . . But Toris was gone yesterday and I completely forgot to administer the sedative in his place, so you've woken up before you were meant to. I'll sedate you again before I leave so you can sleep, all right, honey?"

He wanted to protest against this, but could not think of the right words to do it—a side effect of the sedatives, he realized in frustration. He could only manage to say, "Why'm I tied down, then?"

She bit her lip again, looking awkward and uncomfortable. "Well, you see, we weren't sure if you'd wake up unexpectedly—and you see, you did—and we couldn't have you trying to escape—"

Something clicked suddenly in Prussia's mind. Ukraine: he knew who she was, had seen her so many years ago comforting the little brother who had just lost to him, the little brother who had later defeated him, tried to strangle him on the shores of frozen Lake Peipus. The memory still made him shudder.

Toris, too, he knew he had heard of him before, he knew who that was—Lithuania, one of the three Baltic States, who had been held by—

_Scheiße_. This was the worst possible outcome.

"This is the Soviet Union, isn't it?" he asked, cutting off Ukraine, who had dampened a cloth in the basin of water she had brought with her and was now dabbing carefully at the cut. She nodded quickly.

"Yes, it is, didn't you know? Oh, you were unconscious during all of the negotiations, weren't you, poor dear?" She caught his panicked expression and sympathy flooded her kind features. "Oh, dear, it isn't so bad as that—"

Prussia fought to raise himself; the bonds were just loose enough that he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position. He strained at the ropes that were now cutting into his wrists and ankles. "No—no, _Gott_, no, I can't be here—anywhere else— Please, let me go, please, please— You've got to untie me, _bitte, bitte_—"

A bit alarmed, Ukraine pushed him back down with both hands, then went to the side of the bed to pull the ropes tighter until he could no longer move. Prussia was not strong enough to stop her; these few movements had already jolted his broken bones agonizingly.

"I'm so, so sorry I had to do that," she said apologetically; she sounded near tears. "But Brother will be so angry at me if I let you escape, and I can't work if you're struggling so hard and I just want to get these wounds cleaned up for you so they won't get infected. It isn't so bad as all that, I promise. He put you in a bedroom and everything. I think he likes you. He wasn't anything so kind to the Baltics." She hesitated. "Though I suppose he had to put you down here because if he'd put you downstairs in one of the cells you might have died, the state you were in . . . He doesn't want you to die, though, or he wouldn't have let us take care of you."

Prussia, near to panic, could think of nothing to say, nothing to ask her. She had re-bandaged his face, over his eye once again, and was now tugging the bandages away from his wounded side, causing hi to grit his teeth against the pain as the fabric caught. Panic, sedatives, and a concussion were not a good combination. He felt himself slipping away mentally and the realization of this only frightened him further.

"You're the German Democratic Republic now, honey, did you know that?" said Ukraine, dabbing gently at the wound, in what she likely thought was a cheerful voice. "The GDR, for short. I think it's a nice name."

Prussia took a moment to process this information. No longer East Germany, then. Not the Teutonic Knights, not the Duchy of Prussia or the Prussian Empire . . . The German Democratic Republic. He felt sick.

"My . . . my brother, West . . ."

"He's all right," Ukraine said comfortingly. "I know what it's like to have to worry about a little brother, honey. He's going to spend time with America, France and England. They won't hurt him anymore. They're going to help rebuild Germany. Your brother seemed almost relieved . . . You know how he felt about his boss, of course."

"Yeah." Prussia had felt the same way, of course, but both brothers had maintained careful poker faces whenever discussing it. "_It's the best thing for the Reich_," he could hear West's voice saying, and anyone not so close as a brother would have thought he was completely sincere. "_If the Führer wishes it, who are we to disobey?"_

The thought made him feel even worse. He desperately wanted to see his brother, just to talk. He wondered suddenly when he would ever see him again.

"My brother only wanted you as reparations for all he did for the war effort," continued Ukraine conversationally. "In fact, he was very insistent on it. Ludwig volunteered in your place, since you were unconscious then, but Ivan said he really wanted you. He likes you, I think, as I've said. You'll be all right here. It's not such a bad place."

_Likes you_. Gilbert gave a strangled laugh. The tightened ropes were beginning to hurt badly and if he turned his head he could just see that his wrists were already rubbed raw and beginning to bleed. He knew perfectly well why Russia had wanted him instead of West, and, although he was glad that he was here instead of his little brother, he could guess that Russia had many grudges to take out on him. Their shared history was not a good one, and he could remember vividly the words Russia had said to him six days earlier—had it really been six days? He could not tell if it felt like yesterday or a lifetime ago—before he had lifted him into the air, choking him.

"_I will break you, little one—I swear I will break you_."

He fought back the rising panic again, desperate to maintain what little control he still had. Ukraine had finished her work and was now rummaging around in her bag. She finally found what she was looking for—a syringe, with a clear liquid inside.

"I'm just going to give you the sedative again, honey," she said in motherly tones. "Then you can sleep some more."

"_Nein, bitte nicht, bitte_—"

"Honey," Kat said nervously, "you can't speak German here; it'll make my brother angry. English, if you don't know any Russian, okay?"

"A-all right—but please, don't—"

He despised begging, but somehow it was much easier to plead with this kindly girl than it would have been to an enemy. And this seemed to be paying off: she hesitated, looking genuinely pained, and then her face brightened. "Oh, I know! Before I do sedate you again, let me get you something to eat! There's soup in the kitchen. You must be near dead with hunger, poor dear."

As soon as she said this, Prussia realized how hungry he really was, and any excuse to not be sedated again, to hold onto this faint consciousness and maybe even let the drug clear out of his system a little better so that he could focus, was good enough for him.

"_Ja_—I mean—yes. Please."

Ukraine ran to the door, not leaving, to his disappointment, and called, "Toris! Come here, will you?"

Shit, not Lithuania. Prussia had not considered that she would call him. He had tormented Lithuania so many times in their childhood; he considered him an enemy, and could not bear to have an enemy see him like this: bruised, beaten, wounded and helpless.

The brown-haired nation appeared at the door within seconds, glanced inside without meeting Prussia's eyes, and quickly turned back to Ukraine. "Yes, Kat?"

"Go to the kitchen and bring Gilbert some soup, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." Lithuania disappeared as quickly as he had appeared and Ukraine returned to sit on Prussia's bed beside him, smiling at him in a motherly way.

"Oh, are you cold, dear? I suppose it's a bit chilly in here for someone who isn't used to it. I had to take off your shirt because there are so many wounds all over you and it's just easier this way, but I can cover you with a blanket, if you'd like."

He hated to be mothered, and he hated to admit that he wanted help, but he was so cold that his hands were beginning to go numb—although that might also have been a side effect of the now brutally tight ropes around his wrists. He nodded.

"Can you—can you loosen the ropes a little? Just to where they were before. Please. They're hurting."

"I—well, yes, to where they were before." She walked around the bed to loosen the knot, let the rope out a bit, and tightened the knots again. "I'm sorry I made them so tight, honey. I didn't mean to—I just got scared."

" 'S all right." Gilbert wondered if he could play on her sympathies to help him escape once he was a little stronger. She clearly felt bad for him. This would be a great advantage to him once he was able to stand on his own.

She walked around to the other side of the bed and then caught sight of his bleeding wrists. "Oh no! Dear, I'm so sorry, that's my fault. Once you're sedated again I'll untie you and wrap your wrists up so they won't rub anymore."

"Can't you do it now?" He had briefly entertained the thought of waiting to draw her attention to his wrists until he was a bit stronger, then escaping when she untied him, but, with this hope dashed, he just wanted to be freed for a moment and he was desperate to not be sedated again.

"No, dear, I'm so sorry. Brother told me specifically not to untie you when you were conscious."

"He did, huh," said Gilbert bitterly. "Where's _Brother_ now?" He desperately wanted his own brother—Ludwig, West—although maybe Germany was a better name for him, if he was all of Germany now—and the thought that Ukraine, sweet as she was, felt any kind of sibling affection for the fucking psychopath who had almost killed him multiple times made him almost too angry to control himself. He drew in another long, deep, shuddering breath and forced his tensed muscles to relax.

"He's away," said Ukraine, "but he'll be back here in a few days. He wants to see you again, he said."

Russia wanted to see him again. The thought sickened him. The last time Russia had seen him he had left him half-dead, tortured, bones broken, bleeding in the snow while his beautiful Berlin burned. Defeated.

No. Not defeated. Not entirely. He had never voiced his surrender. The thought helped him to gather up his last scrap and remnant of pride.

"Oh, and here's Toris," Ukraine said brightly, and she rose from the bed to allow the Baltic into the room. He was carrying a bowl of something that smelled good. "You should know Toris has been helping me to care for you, dear."

Prussia turned his head uncomfortably to look up at Lithuania. He hated this—hated looking up at the nation he had looked down at, beaten, so many times. Lithuania was smiling slightly as he inclined his head by way of greeting.

"I'm not sure how I should address you. I've known you through so many . . . changes. Teutonic Knights? Prussia? East Germany? Or do you prefer GDR now?"

"How about Gilbert," muttered Prussia.

"He's recovering, Toris," reprimanded Ukraine, who had also caught the faint note of malice. "Have some sympathy—remember what you . . ." She trailed off, as if unwilling to go on, and reddened slightly.

Lithuania's face had gone from sullen to despairing in a second, and he was now visibly fighting to regain his stoic mask. Prussia's heart began to race again. He had heard stories about Russia and the Baltics, about the ways he treated them, and had never really believed them, but now he was beginning to. All at once a sympathy for Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia that he had never felt before welled up in him, coupled with a rising panic once again for himself.

Ukraine, sensing the change in the room like a sudden chill, immediately turned away from Lithuania and pulled the blanket over Prussia to warm him while she fed him the soup. Prussia loathed the reliance on her, hated the feeling of helplessness, but he was too hungry to protest. Once he had eaten some he began to feel more like himself; he could at last think more clearly.

"Who else is here?" he asked at last, once all of the soup was one. Ukraine glanced at Lithuania, who answered for her.

"Well, the three of us here, of course; Russia himself; Belarus, our little sister; the other Baltics, Latvia and Estonia; and Poland, and Hungary."

At the mention of the lat name Prussia tried to sit up once again, nearly knocking the empty bowl from Ukraine's hands. "Hungary? _Liz?_ Here? _V__erdammt_, _nein_!"

"Don't go speaking German," said Lithuania, before Ukraine could even open her mouth. "You'll get into the habit and once Russia gets back, he won't be happy if he hears that from you."

"Shut the fuck up, Liet! _Hungary_? Not Liz, damn it, she's not supposed to be here too . . . Shit, no . . . Ukraine, Kat, is she okay?"

Ukraine nodded sincerely. "Yes, dear, she's all right. She's fine. She wasn't in such bad shape as you when we got her, and she healed up quickly. She's been cooking for us, and she's very good. She's adapted to life here very well."

"Yeah," said Prussia in some relief. "Yeah, she would. Hungary's smart. And she's good at adapting. Whatever she needs to be for other people—whatever's best for others—she can do it."

Ukraine twisted her hands in her lap nervously.

"Maybe—maybe it's best if you don't let my brother know you care about her so much, okay?" She stared into her lap, then drew a deep breath and turned back to Lithuania. "Toris, dear, bring the bowl back downstairs, please. And my basin, if you would."

"All right," muttered Lithuania. He took the bowl from his hands, grabbed the basin from off the floor, and left, closing the door behind him a little too hard.

Ukraine leaned forward and took one of Prussia's bound hands in both of her own. The touch made him flinch. "I know it's hard," she said softly, "but just try not to let him see. He'll use it against you—and her. She'll be all right, and so will you. I just don't think it's a good idea if you make it known that you care about her."

Prussia nodded miserably. "Yeah. I'll be careful."

"I'm sorry, dear." She cast around for a change of subject, and came up with, "How—how are you feeling? Your wounds, I mean. They're looking much better than they were when you first came to us."

Momentarily distracted by the change in topic, Prussia tried to shrug. "They're all right. I can tell they've gotten better since—since I got them. They hurt a little, especially the broken bones."

"Well, you're doing much better than you were initially," she said confidently. "Except you've got a fever, but I'll be sure to get you something for that." She stood, placing her bag on the floor, and picked up the syringe, which she had left lying on the bed beside her while she fed him. "Well, I'd better sedate you again, dear. I'm glad I got the chance to talk to you; I'll be easing off the sedative in the next few days, because Russia wants to see you and talk to you as soon as he gets back and he won't want you all foggy. Oh, don't look so scared, honey, it'll be fine, don't be afraid. He likes you, I'm sure he does."

"Please don't sedate me again—" Prussia shied away from the needle which she now held in her hand, trying in vain to move away the arm which the tight restraining rope had stretched out, immovable and helpless, across the bed. "Please, please, I don't want to go under again."

"Don't worry, honey," said Ukraine, nervously now. "Like I said, I'm going to ease off it in the next few days, so we'll have another chance to talk soon. Maybe you can meet the rest of the family soon, too!"

"Please, no, please don't." Against his will, tears were pricking at his eyes and the panic was threatening to take control of him again. He strained against his ropes desperately. "God, please, no, I don't want—"

Ukraine slipped the needle into the vein in the crook of his arm, making Prussia stiffen as she injected the sedative. "It's good for you," she told him comfortingly, rubbing his arm where she had put the needle in to quicken its effect. The darkness was beginning to close in on him once again.

"No," he moaned faintly. He could no longer open his eyes or feel his hands. "No, I don't . . . I don't want . . ."

"Oh, my poor dear Gilbert." Her voice was affectionate. "It's not so bad as all that, honey. Don't take it so hard. It's only for your own good—so you won't be in pain while you're healing. And I'll wrap up your wrists while you're under, so they won't hurt anymore."

She continued speaking after this, but he did not hear anything more.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Poor Gilbert :( This was so much fun to write. I like Ukraine. She didn't turn out quite the way I'd envisioned her, but I like this better. Very older-sisterly, towards Ivan as well as Gilbert._

_Sorry for a lot of conversation and not a whole lot of other stuff, and sorry if this chapter dragged on a little . . ._

_Rate and review if you liked it, and thank you for staying with me for more! (Or if you didn't like it, actually - anything you don't like or want me to change?)_

**German translations (if you hadn't figured these out!)**

**Scheiße **= shit

**Gott** = God

**bitte **= please

**Nein, bitte nicht, bitte **= No, please don't, please

**Ja** = yes

**verdammt **= damn it

**nein** = no


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a sedative-induced blur. Gilbert remembered waking up only barely; sometimes he was aware of Ukraine coming in, feeding him, sometimes even speaking to him, before he slipped into unconsciousness again. He heard voices occasionally, too, some whispered and some raised, some unfamiliar and some familiar. Once, he was fairly certain, Hungary came to see him, but he was too far gone to speak to her, despite wanting to badly.

He was faintly aware that Ukraine continued to tend to his wounds, and that, true to her word, she had bandaged his wrists and ankles to prevent the ropes from rubbing them raw, but he was not lucid enough to talk to her on most occasions.

Partly due to the sedative, partly due to the fact that he was away from both clocks and natural light, he had no good concept of the passage of time. This, coupled with fever and the sedative, meant that more than once, he awoke from a nightmare unsure of what was real, and it would take him a long moment of terror to remember that he was not half-drowned on the banks of Lake Peipus, not being tortured in the snow outside Berlin—that he was a prisoner in Russia's house, in the Soviet Union. This thought did little to comfort him.

Eventually, he felt himself coming out of his haze and realized that Ukraine was not there with a syringe as she usually was when he began to regain consciousness. He was alone. She had left the light in the room on after leaving the last time, and had left the blanket tucked over him to keep him warm; she had been sure to do so since he had initially asked her to. He appreciated the gesture, although he hated its necessity; he did not want to ask for help, particularly in something so small, and hated his inability to keep warm on his own or even feed himself. Nonetheless, he had grown to like Ukraine a little. She was occasionally a little bit absentminded, but she was sincerely good-hearted, and she always made an effort to make him more comfortable in whatever ways she was allowed—though she had refused repeated pleas to remove, or at least loosen, the ropes around his wrists and ankles which held him against the bed, arms outstretched, ankles slightly apart and lashed to the foot of the bed.

The door of the bedroom was closed, which gave him a feeling of security he did not usually have. He would at least have the warning of the doorknob turning if someone was coming in, which, while it was not much, was at least something, and he had learned to appreciate the small things. In addition to this advantage, he very much appreciated the new clear-headedness from the sedative's absence, which he had not experienced in what, by now, felt like forever; he had not been given the sedative in long enough that he could even feel some of his strength returning, though his wounds, still not entirely healed, ensured that he was nowhere near his full strength.

With an effort, he tried to lift his head and look down at himself; most of his chest was covered with the blanket, but he could still see a few of the bandages on his pale skin. They were all still white. This meant that the wounds had stopped bleeding through the bandages, which could only be a good sign. He wanted very much to look at the wound in his side, which had been the worst offender when it came to bleeding through, but he could not because the blanket covered it—and now, he realized, as he tried to shift his body to dislodge the blanket, his ropes were much tighter today than they usually were.

This unnerved him tremendously. Ekaterina had tried to be very careful and gentle towards him, and had, for the past few days, tied the ropes as loose as she could while still leaving him unable to thrash around in his sleep and hurt himself further; today they were just as tight, if not tighter, than they had been when she had initially tightened them to hold him down when he had woken up for the first time. He could scarcely move, no slack in the bonds at all, and he could think of no proper justification for this new treatment. In the days that Ukraine had cared for him, he had given her no reason to distrust him; he had made sure of that, hoping that making no attempt to break out of the ropes and paying close and careful attention to the orders she gave him would eventually placate her enough that she would take pity on him and untie him, if only a few moments.

He did not really have any of the qualms about obeying Ukraine that he had about obeying Russia; she was too nice to treat defiantly, and anyway, she was taking care of him. She never gave him any order that was not for his own good, and he was sensible enough to not want to disobey these. And anyway, it was not her fault that he was a prisoner, or tied down, or wounded; she was in the Soviet Union against her will too, even if Russia _was_ her brother.

The doorknob turned with a click and he eagerly strained to lift his head, to see who it was—he was very much hoping to see Hungary, since he was at last lucid enough to talk to her properly, though he would have been happy to see Ukraine, too—unless she was coming with sedative again—so that he could ask her to loosen the ropes, and ask her why they had been tightened in the first place. Even Lithuania would have been a welcome sight; the Baltic nation was still a bit wary and cold towards him, but at least he would give him news, if pressed, which was more than Ukraine was usually willing to do. He had not yet met Poland in the house, nor ever met Latvia, Estonia, or Belarus, though Ukraine had told him in confidence that, really, he did not much want to meet Belarus.

It was none of these. The door was pushed fully open and, standing there, nearly filling the entire doorway with his bulk, was Russia.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Sorry, I didn't really intend to leave this chapter on a cliffhanger, or to make it quite so short, but I just really wanted to keep posting the story as I came up with it and so you are left with this. __More is coming very soon, and I promise it'll be longer than this little drabble! I know you're all looking forward to meeting Russia again, da? _^J^

_Thank you for continuing to read! Please review, follow and favorite if you like it, or if there's anything you'd like me to change, and know that I appreciate you all!_


	4. Chapter 4

Prussia's immediate reaction was to begin struggling violently against his ropes, which he now understood with a thrill of fear had been tightened specifically in anticipation of Russia's arrival. Russia simply stood in the doorway watching the smaller nation struggle fruitlessly, smiling a little, until he gave up and lay still, chest rising and falling rapidly, praying that Russia just wanted to see that he was still there and would leave now.

The large nation did nothing of the sort. He was smiling proudly as he entered the room, with a bounce in his step that Prussia had not seen once during the war.

"_Privyet_, German Democratic Republic!" he said brightly. Prussia cringed at the cheeriness, something he had grown accustomed to hearing in Ukraine's voice. Hearing the same tone that had once comforted him in her brother's voice was almost unbearable. "Have you finished trying to escape now?" continued Russia cheerfully. "I don't mind if you want to keep trying. I'll wait. I think it's cute."

Prussia was furious at himself for the fear that was rising in him. He was _not_ afraid of Russia: he had never been afraid of him. He was not afraid of anything—least of all someone who was scared to face him unless he was tied hand and foot and unable to move. This thought encouraged him a little, though this brief moment of cheer quickly faded when he looked back at Russia and saw the smile beginning to slip away, replaced by a more dangerous expression.

"Well?" said Russia, with some impatience now. "How are you, little one? Ukraine tells me she has been taking good care of you and that your wounds are nearly healed. Are you recovering your strength?"

Prussia merely scowled. He wanted Ukraine to come in—or Lithuania, or Hungary, or _somebody_—so that he would not be alone with Russia. He was forcibly reminded of America shouting at Russia and realized bitterly that the loud, obnoxious nation was likely the reason Russia had not strangled him to death then. He wanted intervention now. Ordinarily he would have hated anyone else helping him to fight his battles, but then again, ordinarily he was not tied to a bed so tightly he could not move, with broken bones and a concussion and wounds all over his body.

Russia seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Prussia tensed, waiting for him to make a move to hurt him, but instead took a few slow steps forward. He noticed suddenly that he was holding a heavy pipe in his hand, a faucet affixed to the end. He had not idea what this meant, but it could not bode well for him. He tried once again, without much success, to shift himself away, to struggle backwards and put even a few more inches between himself and the Russian. Once again, to his frustration, Russia stopped to allow him to struggle, as if in a parody of courtesy. This time Prussia gave up more quickly.

Russia beamed at this "Look at you, GDR! You are learning already. Let me see how you are doing."

He sat down on the bed beside him, as Ukraine had done several times before, and pulled away at the blanket to take a look at his bare chest. By now, Ukraine had removed some of the bandages, and most of the cuts were scabbed over or partially healed, joining the patchwork of older scars he had received years earlier.

Russia surveyed this map of scars and half-healed cuts and bruises like an artist looking at his own painting, and beamed. Prussia lay still, tense, unsure whether he was even afraid anymore or just angry. He was furious at his inability to move, to stop Russia from looking at him that way, but also more afraid than he would have ever been willing to admit that Russia would hurt him further in his helpless state. Usually he would not care in the least, but usually he was able to give as good as he got, and he was not ready for another broken bone.

Russia had clearly seen these thoughts going through Prussia's head, and beamed as he saw the white-haired nation lie still at last and saw his red eyes widen with fear that he was trying to hide.

"Are you going to talk to me, little one?" he inquired. "I came all the way back here to see you; I was in America, you know. You are disappointing me. I had looked forward to seeing you again."

He waited again, then, frowning at Prussia's continued silence, said, "If you are not going to talk to me, then I suppose there is no reason to keep you conscious anymore. I can always have Litva or dear Ekaterina come in to sedate you again. She tells me that you do not like that so much."

"No!" said Prussia, before he could stop himself, and Russia smiled happily.

"You _do_ have a voice then, little one, _malyutka_! Oh, I'm glad. If you don't want to be sedated again, though, you must convince me that it is worth my while to keep you awake, because so far you have not done that."

Prussia scowled again. Maybe it would be better to feel nothing than to have to lie here, tied down, talking to the Russian bastard. He wanted Ukraine. More than that, he wanted Hungary, but he could remember vividly Ukraine's words of warning, and he did not want to risk her safety.

He turned his head away from Russia, the only way he could show that he was ignoring him purposefully.

Russia sighed. "You are beginning to annoy me, _malyutka_," he said. "I will be kind to you for now since you are still weak, but you had best not come to expect that."

He turned back to examining Prussia's chest, removing one of his gloves to poke at a few of the wounds. Prussia gritted his teeth. Clearly, they had not healed quite as thoroughly as he had thought they had, and Russia's cold hand against his skin both hurt and repulsed him. He wanted desperately to move away.

"Your skin is so pale," Russia observed. "It's funny." He poked at one of the scars. "This is an old one . . . Many of these are old, aren't they? I wonder, do you have any from when we fought when we were younger?"

Prussia shook his head violently. In fact, he was fairly sure that he did, but he would not give Russia the satisfaction of knowing that he had once hurt him. He would have enough scars from their encounter outside Berlin to last a lifetime. Russia frowned, then shrugged and continued to peruse the scars.

"I wonder, is it because you're no good at defending yourself that you have so many scars?" he asked. "Look at you. There are so many. I can hardly count them."

"I'm as old as you are," snapped Prussia, "and I've gotten into far more fights."

Russia smiled at hearing him speak again, seemingly ignoring the words. "Do you have many scars on your back?" he inquired curiously. Prussia scowled, but Russia's expression made him speak quickly.

"N-no. Not many."

He was used to facing his attacker, he thought bitterly. No one would catch him running. And he was watchful. Nobody who tried to attack him from behind would get very far.

"Most of those I fight fought with honor," he added fiercely. "They would not sneak up on me like cowards; they would face me like men. And I would face them; no one catches me fleeing from a fight."

He was expecting Russia to get angrier at this, but instead he merely raised his eyebrows, then smiled. "I see," he said. "And how did that work out for those who attacked with what you call honor, little one?"

"They died with honor," Prussia said proudly. "And those who tried to attack me in a cowardly way, or tried to run from me, died cowards' deaths."

Russia's face was grim. "Your arrogance is beginning to annoy me. You are in no position to be vain now, da? Look at you. You have lost—lost the war, lost your brother, lost your last, lost everything."

"Where is _your_ honor, then?" spat Prussia.

"There is a difference," Russia informed him harshly, "between being an enemy in war and being a prisoner of that war. There is no honor in being a prisoner, and I have no obligation to treat you with honor. You deserve none. Your men did not treat mine with honor when they captured them, Nazi _fashistskiy._"

His fingers had found the wound on Prussia's side and he poked a finger inside the wound, making Prussia gasp sharply.

_"F-fass mich nicht an! Lass mich in Ruhe!"_

Russia slapped him across the face, causing his head to snap back. Prussia tasted blood; his lip had split open again. He twisted his head to try to wipe the blood off on his shoulder before it began to run down his chin, but Russia then grabbed his jaw, hard enough to leave bruises, and wrenched his head around, forcing the smaller man to face him.

"I will not hear that ugly language spoken inside my home, do you understand me?" His voice was raised now. "I have already done more than I needed to by taking you in, and you have been nothing but ungrateful. I saved your life, turned you into the GDR, healed your wounds—"

"Wounds _you_ gave me, you fucking—"

Russia's hand closed around his throat, effectively cutting off his words. Prussia twisted, trying desperately to free himself, pulling at the ropes helplessly.

"Do not speak back to me again," Russia told him, in a cold voice of terrifying calm. "You are only in this nice room because you would probably have died in one of the cells in the basement, but once you are suitably healed I will stop showing you such hospitality. Your conduct is unfitting for your position and you are undeserving of what I have given you."

Russia slammed out of the room, leaving Prussia with his cheek stinging and blood smeared across the side of his face.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_So, for the time being I'll keep trying to get these chapters out efficiently. I can't promise that in the future, since I'm still looking for a summer job and once I get one I might be a little busier . . . but for now, I'm really enjoying the story, and I hope you are too!_

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed it and read it, I love seeing the responses. Please keep reading and reviewing; I appreciate it so much!_

**Russian Translations  
****da** = yes  
**privyet **= hello  
**malyutka** = little one  
**fashistskiy** = fascist/Nazi - derogatory term for the Nazis used by Russian Communists

**German Translations  
****Fass mich nicht an** = don't touch me  
**Lass mich in Ruhe** = leave me alone


	5. Chapter 5

For a long moment, Prussia simply lay there, his heart beating far too fast, staring at the closed door and trying to calm himself down. He had now heard both Ukraine and Russia refer to "the basement," Ukraine to tell him and Russia to threaten him with it. Still, he decided, he did not particularly care at this point. If he was in a cell, perhaps at least he would have some freedom to move around. Usually it was his habit to awake at five to exercise, and he could tell that the lack of movement coupled with the wounds was beginning to take its toll on his body. He hated the thought of losing any of his strength and he was afraid that the toned muscle he had spent so long developing was going to atrophy from lack of use.

It was a long time before he had suitably calmed himself down, partly by forcing himself to breathe evenly and partly by reminding himself stubbornly that he could not do anything, and panicking would help no one, least of all himself. He was not afraid of Russia, he reminded himself fiercely. He had never been afraid of Russia. Russia was afraid of him, otherwise he would not have tied him down.

He realized that he no longer even noticed the pain in his broken arm and wrist, let alone the wound in his side or the other cuts and bruises, unless he was focusing on it. In a way, this was a good thing. There was nothing wrong with heightened pain tolerance, but he was frightened by the thought that he would simply get used to the abuse, to the wounds. He was not willing to simply give up. He could take it, but he would never accept it.

Now that he was thinking about his wounds, they were really beginning to pain him, especially the fresh bruises on his jaw and throat—bruises he never would have gotten, he thought savagely, if he had been able to move his hands and defend himself. They were wounds inflicted by a coward. This cheered him a little, but they were throbbing now, and thinking about them was only making the pain seem worse. He slowed his breathing a little and shifted his focus to the wound in his side. That, at least, was a sharp pain, instead of a throbbing one, and that was a little easier to deal with. Except that now he was very much aware of all his wounds and in quite a lot of pain.

He made himself think about other things, but his thoughts could not find anything happy to settle on. He could not think of his brother without bringing himself near to tears; the other Allies, Italy and Japan, were a little bit easier, but the thought that he might not see the cheerful little Feliciano again was genuinely painful as well. No—the war was not a good source of distraction.

It was a long time before he finally slipped away into fitful sleep.

* * *

At some point the next day he heard the door open again and tensed in anticipation of the angry Russian with his pipe once again. However, to his delight and astonishment, it was Hungary. She was carrying a bowl in her hands and looked frightened as she hurried over to the bed and sat beside him, setting the bowl on a small table beside the bed.

"Oh, Gilbert! How are you? I've been wanting to come to see you ever since I heard you were here, but . . . Anyway, Russia had to leave again, and Ukraine was busy so she told me to bring you up food."

Ukraine's words were prodding at the back of his mind. But Russia was gone, and he had been desperate to see her.

"It's . . . it's good to see you, Liz."

"It's not good to see you particularly, Gil," she said bluntly, "especially in this place. You look horrible, more so than usual anyway."

Despite himself, Prussia smiled. "Yeah, thanks a lot. You're looking pretty hideous yourself."

"Seriously, though, what the hell did you do to your face? You've got bruises all over it, on your jaw and your throat too, and you've got a split lip and your face is pretty scratched and scraped up too." Her expression became stern. "Are you provoking him? That's not going to do anyone any good."

"Not . . . not on purpose . . ."

"Oh, don't shit me, you _féleszű_," said Hungary affectionately. "You've always taken any opportunity to get on people's nerves." Her tone became serious. "But you can't do that here, okay? You _can't_. He'll hurt you—worse than he has already." She glanced at his arm and wrist. "Let me guess; he did that to you?"

Prussia nodded, glowering. He had half-hoped that Hungary would be uncharacteristically sympathetic, but now could not decide if he preferred this. In a way, the unfazed attitude towards him, even in his current state, was surprisingly comforting. At the very least, she was certainly the Hungary he remembered.

"And what did you to piss him off?"

Prussia sulked. Hungary laughed a little, though her voice sounded a little strained when she spoke again.

"Just . . . don't do so unnecessarily, okay?" She sighed. "I know it's just what you're like, but try not to be like that. You've been lucky that he decided he wanted to take care of you instead of letting you die. And you could've died, you know, easily." She hesitated. "I'm . . . I'm glad you didn't."

Prussia looked up at these words, smirking. "Getting sentimental, are we?"

She raised her hand as if she meant to slap him, then put it back down in her lap. "Maybe I shouldn't hit you when you've already clearly been beaten up pretty good. There's nowhere free for me to put another bruise."

Prussia's smile faded a little. "I've had worse," he muttered, scowling. "_You've_ given me worse. Don't start worrying about me."

Hungary raised her eyebrows dubiously, then pulled back the blanket to take a look at his chest as Russia had the day before. Prussia flinched. Ordinarily he would not have minded, but to have her do so right after Russia had done the same—

"H-hey," he muttered, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "_nein, _you leave me the hell alone. _Hör auf_."

Hungary ignored him. She ran a hand gently over his chest, counting the scars, once again as Russia had. Her hands were much warmer and softer than Russia's had been, and he relaxed slightly under her touch, though his fists had clenched involuntarily at the touch nonetheless. Even if it was Hungary, he still despised being unable to move. He did not like to be touched without his permission.

"Maybe just the bruises and cuts," she said skeptically, "but I've never given you anything like that wound in your side, and it looks like that slash across your face just about took out your eye. You're lucky you can still, you know."

"Oh, yeah. That one wasn't Russia, though. I think that was America, actually."

"Well, it doesn't look too good, especially on top of everything else." Her eyes fell on the bowl of soup on the bedside table. "Oh, yeah, I was actually supposed to come up here to bring you some food. I've already stayed longer than I should have."

"I'm glad you could stay."

Hungary giggled as she picked up the bowl and dipped the spoon in. "Who's getting sentimental now? Open your mouth before you start getting mushy."

Prussia accepted the mouthful grudgingly. "Can't you untie me? I'm so fucking sick of not being able to move."

"No . . . I'm really sorry. I want to. And I would if I could. But I'd get in so much trouble. Russia isn't . . . isn't someone you want to cross. Even if he's not here now, he'd probably find out, and then he'd be furious at you as well as me."

Prussia hesitated, but did not ask again. If his being freed for a bit might put Hungary in danger, then it was not worth it. He allowed Hungary to feed him the rest of the soup in silence, but began to protest again when she picked up the bowl and moved towards the door once again.

"Hey! I haven't gotten a chance to talk to you since you got here, don't go so soon!"

Hungary paused at the door, smiled tensely. "I've got to go, Gil; Kat was expecting me back a while ago. It was kind of risky for me to spend this long talking to you anyway—I couldn't have if Russia was here."

"But he's not here now! You might not get another opportunity!"

Hungary sighed, then crossed the room back to him and leaned over the bed to kiss his forehead. "Just try to sleep or something, _kedves_," she said kindly, placing a hand on his forehead. "And I'll try to sneak back to see you when I can."

Prussia nodded resignedly. "Okay. But you'd better."

She smiled at him a little sadly, then turned and walked out of the room without looking back again, closing the door behind her.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_It's about time I introduced Hungary! I'm planning on bringing some of the other characters in soon, especially Poland; he's so much fun. And sorry if my love of PruHun is showing . . . I just really like them._

_By the way, are the languages obnoxious? I like that when they're being very sincere, like in Hungary's case, or are stressed, like in Prussia's, they revert back to their own language, but I feel like maybe it's annoying. And I suppose in Russia's case he just uses Russian to remind Prussia of where he is._

_And speaking of Russia, yes, he's going to come back pretty soon, and yes, things are not going to be so good for Gilbert when he does._

_Thanks for reading, and please review and favorite and follow and everything else, and I will love you forever._

**German translation  
****nein** = no  
**Hör auf** = stop that

**Hungarian translation (uh huh, getting a little fancy with the languages here)  
****féleszű** = idiot  
**kedves **= dear/darling


	6. Chapter 6

It was several days before anyone came to visit him again—that is, Ukraine came in occasionally, as she usually did, to bring him food and tend to his now nearly-healed wounds, but her demeanor had gained a new agitation and haste that he had not seen before, and she did not respond to his questions and attempts at conversation with anything more than a few quick words. She no longer sat down beside him.

A few times, Lithuania showed up to bring him food and medicine instead of Ekaterina, but he was far more agitated than she. He would no longer speak to Prussia at all, despite repeated pleas for information, for news, for anything, and would not even meet his eyes when he spoke to him. He left hastily and seemed to hardly breathe until he had finished his work with the utmost haste.

From these signs Prussia could gauge the situation in the house; Russia was clearly back, and, from the looks of the bruises on Lithuania's face and arms that he tried to hide and the ginger, painful way the quiet Baltic nation walked, as if sore from a beating, it was blatantly obvious that he was not in a good mood and looking for someone to take it out on.

Because of this, he, too, became constantly on edge, jumping at the smallest sound and flinching whenever his door opened. He had tried to reassure himself by reminding himself that he had healed fairly well by now, and was therefore less helpless than he had been initially; though really, he was still tied down, with ropes that had not loosened again since Russia first came in to see him, and so any sense of renewed mobility was purely wishful thinking on his part. In addition, he was painfully aware of the fact that he had not been able to exercise at all for however many weeks his captivity had dragged on, and this had taken its toll.

More than once he had to force his mind away from thoughts of earlier days, when the Prussian Empire had swept through Europe conquering as he went. The thoughts, far from raising his pride again, only drove him into a depression at his current state of ineffectual helplessness.

With all of these new problems, it was almost a relief when the door opened and he saw the man he had been waiting to see since he caught sight of the first fresh bruises on Lithuania's face.

Russia held his pipe, as usual, and wore the same horrible look of innocence that Prussia had seen on his face as he broke his bones in the snow outside Berlin. He looked genuinely pleased to see his prisoner as he crossed the room in a few long strides and seated himself comfortably on the edge of the bed, which creaked under his weight.

Prussia, who had been anticipating this moment in increasing dread for days, realized now, with a mild interest at the fact, that he scarcely even felt afraid anymore. He was just bored at the constant unchanged tedium that had become his life in the Soviet Union, and anything would be better than the same room, the same ropes. He met Russia's violet eyes and even returned his smile, refusing to appear cowed.

Russia simply chuckled. "You are feeling better, da? I am glad, GDR, _moy malyutka_." He reached out a huge hand to stroke Prussia's white hair patronizingly; Prussia jerked his head away angrily and Russia withdrew his hand, seemingly unfazed by the defiance, at least for the time being. "I think you are all healed up now, at least as much as you need to be."

Prussia just waited. He could guess that Russia was waiting for him to say something and did not want to give him the satisfaction. Russia sighed.

"You are no fun here anymore, my little pet, and you have not yet thanked me for the nice room I gave you. You have not been a gracious guest."

Prussia, resisting the urge to swear at him in German, instead snapped, _"Guest,_ my ass. Guests are allowed to leave when they're sick of their host."

Russia's eyebrows rose quizzically. "Then you are not happy where I have put you?"

"Happy?" Gilbert half-shrieked. Surely the Russian did not really think he was _happy_. "I'm tied down, you bastard, you think I'm happy here, stuck in the same place every day?"

To his surprise, Russia beamed at these words. "Then I will give you a change of scenery, da, _fashistskiy_?" he said, and Prussia, with a chill, caught the sadism beneath the seemingly bright tone. "You have been here comfortably for too long, accepting my hospitality without gratitude and offering nothing in return. And in addition, my dear, it is time for you to learn your manners."

Prussia, realizing too late that he had walked into a neatly set trap, bit his lip hard to keep from retorting back. Then he threw caution to the winds; if he was already going to be taken out of the room he had grown so sick of anyway, he might as well tell Russia what he thought of him first.

"_Ich haße dich_," he spat, not caring when he saw the Russian's purple eyes darken with anger at the German words. The effect that these few words had had was enough to make him feel some faint sense of control, and as a result he continued shouting at him in German, enjoying the effect that his words were having on the increasingly furious Russia. "_ICH HAßE DICH,_" he repeated viciously, "_und deine verdammte Haus._"

He could not react quickly enough as he saw Russia, who had been kneeling beside the bed to loosen one of the knots there, straighten up with his pipe in his hand. In a swift movement he had brought it down on Gilbert's stomach, avoiding his ribs this time but knocking the wind out of him and causing his body to jerk violently against the ropes in an attempt to curl up on itself. The faucet on the end of the pipe punctured his bare skin, which began to bleed heavily from a new, ragged wound. A cry ripped itself from Gilbert's lips against his will; for a moment, everything seemed to go dark. He fought to regain control of his breathing.

"What did I say?" Russia asked, and his voice was deathly quiet. "I do not stand disobedience or insolence; you may ask my Baltics to back me up in this. I have told you already that I will not hear the language of your Nazi scum spoken in my house."

Prussia, retching and coughing, tried and failed to catch his breath; for a second, he could barely see. He forced himself to draw a long, ragged breath, provoking another coughing fit, then turned his head to spit blood on the sheets beside him. Russia observed this, frowning in some distaste.

"I'm not—one of—your fucking—Baltics," he choked at Russia. "They've given—up—let you—get to them—" He broke off, coughing harder. His lungs seemed to be refusing to fill properly with air. Russia observed him fight for oxygen for a few moments.

"I warned you against disobeying me," he said at last, when Prussia at last had stilled, breathing hard. "Do not think that I will not hurt you again, that I will not bruise you and make you bleed. I told you once that I would break you, and this has not changed. Do you understand?"

He paused, waiting for Prussia, wide-eyed with fear that he was trying to conceal, to respond; when he did not and simply continued to gasp for air, he rolled his eyes, sat down on the bed again, pulled Prussia slightly nearer to him, then reached out to the deep, ragged wound he had just caused with the faucet and pushed his fingers into the torn, bleeding gash.

Prussia bit back a scream of agony at the pain, as unexpected as it was intense, and writhed, straining against the ropes with his depleted strength, frantic to get away from the pain. Vaguely, he heard Russia's voice again, calm and insistent.

"I said, little GDR, do you understand?"

He just wanted—needed—the agony to stop. The feeling of the pain in his side only increased his acute sense of helplessness as he tried to pull against the stubborn bonds. His arms were held far too tight, stretched out and useless to him in his defenseless state. Russia's fingers dug deeper; he refused to scream, but an agonized moan escaped his lips. Unconsciousness was too much to hope for; his senses had only become more acute, every nerve ending screaming for the pain to end.

"Yes," he hissed, the words coming unwillingly, but he was in too much pain to even think clearly anymore. "Yes!"

Russia withdrew his now bloodstained fingers, observed them, then, shrugging, wiped them on the sheets. "These nice sheets will have to be thrown away anyway," he said in disappointment, "so I suppose it does not matter." He looked back at Prussia, who was now covered with a sheen of sweat and whose chest was rising and falling with rapid, agitated breaths, and smiled.

"If you can not take even that much, my little one," he said, his voice fond, "I doubt you will last any longer than Lithuania did."

Prussia desperately wanted to retort back, but bit back further curses. He had responded to Russia against his will; he did not intend to be forced to do so again. He knew he could last longer than Lithuania; one look at poor Toris and it was clear he couldn't take a hit. Whereas he, Prussia, was a soldier—a fighter, who was used to pain and who had never let it trouble him in the past.

Russia watched his face closely.

"I know what you are thinking," he told him, "and you are wrong. Remember Toris is not so weak as you might think. He beat you once. You are not so special. I look forward to hearing you scream for mercy, little one. I will send him in to take care of that scrape, and I will come back to take you to your new room tomorrow."

He rose and walked out, leaving Prussia to continue panting for to breath on the bloodstained bed, his fresh wound bleeding freely onto the once white sheets.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Ahh, at last, this is what I had been most looking forward to writing... And what I'm guessing a lot of you were looking forward to as well, if I haven't misjudged my equally sadistic audience..._

_I'm sorry if I got boring for a while. I realize now that I basically left Gilbert tied to a bed for four chapters and almost nine thousand words. Oh well, now it's time for the fun stuff, and I hope you didn't get sick of my writing before then. I had considered more chapters later on when he interacts with Latvia and Estonia and Poland and Belarus, but whatever, I'll bring them in later (don't worry, you'll still get to see them). I think it was well time for some action, right?_

_I am now at more than 10,000 words finished in only three days (honestly, it's kind of crazy to think about how long it took me to write a 2,000-word research paper, and now I've just written down five times that no problem) and I'm concerned I'm about to hit major writer's block, but I promise to keep going! I've still got lots of things to say and I just need to get them down._

_Oh, and one more thing. Do you think I should change this to an M rating for the swearing and the torture stuff? I mean, I don't plan on any graphic sexual content, but still, I feel like this is getting a little intense for its current T rating. Let me know what you think._

_That's all I've got for now. Please keep on following and reviewing and favoriting and everything, your support is keeping me going! You are the best! I really want to know what you think so far! _

**Russian translations**

**moy malyutka** = my little one  
**fashistskiy** = fascist/Nazi

**German translations  
****Ich haße dich** = I hate you  
**und deine verdammte Haus **= and your damned house


	7. Chapter 7

Only a few minutes passed before Lithuania appeared at the door, even paler and more nervous than usual, carrying bandages, rags, and a bottle of antiseptic in his hand. Someone shorter was lurking behind him that Prussia could not make out, since he could scarcely lift his head on a good day and was now dizzy from the blow and the blood loss.

Lithuania made his way over to the bed, and Prussia was relieved to see that his hands were unusually steady as he dampened one of the rags in antiseptic. At least _someone_ was in control here.

"Toris," he managed weakly, "thanks."

Surprised, Lithuania withdrew the rag that he had been about to press to the wound, and smiled a little.

"You're welcome," he said. Prussia could not help but notice a fresh bruise on the side of his head, but refrained from saying anything about it. "I—I know how Ivan can be. I hope you're all right."

A blond head poked out timidly from behind Lithuania and Prussia suddenly realized, with some surprise, who had followed him into the room.

"Poland? Feliks? Is that you?"

The blond nation jumped a little, then gave a nervous giggle. _"Cześć,"_ he said. "Like, yeah, it's me. Russia's been totally bullying little Litva and so I'm following him around to protect him." He patted Lithuania's shoulder and Toris flinched at the contact. Poland, with some of his initial anxiety dissipated, knelt down beside Prussia's bed and stared at him with unabashed interest that made Prussia feel rather like a museum display. He wished he could move.

"You're totally beaten up," he informed him, the words not intended to be spiteful, just stating a fact. "You look even worse than Toris does."

Lithuania, who looked as if he was trying very hard to ignore him, drew a deep breath, though his featured had tightened a little at Poland's words, and re-dampened the rag, which had begun to dry out. "This may sting a little," he told Prussia, deliberately turning away from Poland, "but it's to prevent infection and I'll make it quick."

"Just do it," said Prussia dispassionately. He had gotten a grip on the pain by now; he could take a little more. He had already decided that, since he had no other way to fight back, he was simply going to resist by refusing to break down under any kind of torment; he did not doubt his ability to do so in the least, and the thought of the frustration this would cause Russia was enough to renew his resolve. He could see the wound, if he lifted his head, and it looked ugly, but this only bolstered his confidence; Russia had tried to downplay the trauma, but really, he had withstood something pretty bad.

Lithuania looked nervous, but he pressed the cloth against the torn flesh, immediately causing a stinging sensation that made Prussia grit his teeth tightly and draw another long, unsteady breath. Still, it was not as bad as he had been expecting. Lithuania carefully cleaned the wound and wrapped it tightly with bandages as Poland watched with rapt interest.

"What'd he do to you?" he inquired of Prussia curiously. "Like, Lithuania never tells me anything about what's going on. Did Russia give you that gash? It totally looks like it hurts a lot."

Prussia grimaced. "It's not—that bad. Yeah. That was him." He had finally gotten his breathing under control, which was a great relief; his heartbeat had slowed down to normal as well. He was getting good at calming himself down, he thought with some satisfaction; he would not get overwhelmed or begin to panic again soon, hopefully.

He was in control. He repeated this to himself several times. The sharp, stinging pain of the antiseptic was a relief; unlike the foggy sensation of before, when he could hardly breathe and could not focus on anything else, this pain had somehow managed to clear his head.

Poland poked at one of the other, healed-over scars with morbid curiosity and Prussia, unable to move away, pulled angrily at his bonds in an attempt to brush his hand off; Lithuania glanced down at his friend as if he wanted to say something, but then shut his mouth.

"You have a lot of scars and cuts and bruises, don't you?" Poland asked, giggling a little. Prussia ignored him; unperturbed, Feliks pressed on, "Hey, why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"Because Toris and Kat like to look at my sexy chest, Feliks," said Gilbert. He had found very little excuse for humor in the Soviet Union, but Poland was always easy to tease, for the most part because he rarely realized that he was being teased.

To his amusement, Poland seemed to accept this answer without any misgivings, and continued to sit watching Prussia with interest while Lithuania finished up his work. Then, as the Baltic gathered up the remainder of the bandages and antiseptic, he finally spoke again.

"I'm going to stay here and talk to Gilbert," he announced. "You're, like, boring, Liet. All you do is work and you don't even talk anymore."

Lithuania raised his eyebrows, looking a little hurt, but shrugged it off. "Okay. If you want to I don't care. Don't stay too long or Russia will catch you and be angry."

Poland raised a hand and waved it absently, as if to brush the concerned words away from him. He was grinning. "I'm totally not scared of him like _you_, Liet."

Prussia saw the muscles in Lithuania's face tighten a little at these words, and wondered if the tactless Pole had finally gone too far, but the Baltic said nothing more as he walked away slowly. As soon as he had left the room, closing the door behind him a little harder than was strictly necessary, Poland leaned closer to Prussia and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"Okay, so, listen to me, I totally came here because I want to help you," he whispered enthusiastically. "So. Yeah. Guess what?"

Prussia had no idea how Poland could help him, but at the very least, if he had decided that it would be funny or amusing to try and aid the former East Germany then that could only be a good thing—unless, that is, Feliks had decided he wanted something ridiculous in return. Still, the thought cheered him a little; at least someone still thought he was not beyond help, and he had expected to just be made to listen to Poland chat idly about the ponies he had left at home.

"Uh, thanks, Feliks. What?"

Poland beamed. "You'll totally never guess, though. I'll just tell you."

He paused, as if for dramatic effect. It worked. Prussia was rather agitated when he did not immediately continue. "So _tell _me, then!"

Poland puffed up his chest with pride. "Well, I was totally doing some snooping around—Russia _never_ noticed—and I found out your brother's been sending you letters!"

Whatever Prussia had been expecting, it was not this. The information hit him like a brick wall, destroying any of the calm reserve he had been working to maintain. He turned to stare at Poland, wide-eyed, heart pounding with excitement. "Letters? From _Ludwig_?"

For the past weeks, he had been violently suppressing any thought of his brother whenever they came up; he missed his little brother terribly, and, despite Ukraine's reassurances that West had fought hard to keep Russia from Prussia, he could not completely put away the thought that he had been betrayed while unconscious and unable to speak for himself. Not once had he even considered that Ludwig would try to get in touch with him, or that he could have, if he had tried.

"_Tak_," said Poland proudly. "It sounds like he's sent quite a few, according to what I got out of little Latvia; he's the one who usually gets them, but, like, he always brings them straight to Russia, who apparently just reads them and then burns them."_  
_

Prussia's heart sank, the hope that had arisen in his chest at the thought of some communication immediately extinguished. The disappointment was agonizing. "He _b__urns _them?"

"Yeah—like, sorry about that." Prussia paused, somber for a moment, but brightened up again almost immediately. "But no, there's a point to my telling you this because I totally rescued one for you!"

"_What?"_

"Yeah! I got to Latvia first because it arrived when Russia was gone, and I made him give it to me and told him if he told Russia I'd taken it he'd just get in trouble for losing it and so he'd better not say anything. Brilliant, huh?"

A smile split Prussia's face without his even thinking about it. He did not particularly even care that this motion cracked his lip open again. "_Ja_," he admitted. "Brilliant. Thanks so much, Feliks. Really."

Poland giggled, self-satisfied. "I haven't decided yet what you can do to thank me, but just wait. You owe me big-time anyway because of the war, am I right?"

Prussia was always astonished at how he managed to make light of this; the thought of all his boss had done to Poland's people made him redden with shame, but Poland seemed to not have held a grudge. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "Yeah, I do. But did you bring the letter, Feliks? Can I see it?"

"Yeah," said Poland proudly. "I brought it. Want me to read it to you?"

Prussia nodded; although the thought that Poland would see the words he was sure were intended for his eyes alone made him uncomfortable, he was well aware that he had no way to look at it on his own. "Please," he said, the word coming with some difficulty.

Poland reached into his pocket and took out a letter; he had clearly crumpled it into his pocket quickly and unceremoniously before someone saw it, and the paper was ripped a little on one side. If Prussia raised his head to get a good look at it, he could see that it was definitely Ludwig's handwriting—an odd and unique combination of tidy and scrawled that would have been very difficult to imitate. There was an unsteadiness in the hand that he had not seen before, as if the writer's hand had been shaking a little, but still, it was unmistakably his little brother's.

The familiar sight gave him a horrible pang of homesickness that he had not felt since his arrival in the Soviet Union, and all at once he desperately wanted to be with his brother, in his old home.

He swallowed hard, praying that the tears threatening to overwhelm him would not be visible to Poland. If they were, the blond nation chose to ignore them, for which he was grateful.

Poland cleared his throat and read, "_Dear Gilbert_—"

"Quiet!" hissed Prussia, desperately. If they were interrupted, if someone overheard, he knew they would both be punished severely and any chance of his ever hearing the letter's contents, or of ever seeing another of his brother's letters, would be utterly destroyed. "Please, I don't want anyone to hear!"

"Oh. Sorry." Poland lowered his voice and continued, "_Dear Gilbert, I don't know if you're getting my letters—if you'll get this one—but I'm going to keep trying regardless. You have to know, Gil, that I'm trying so hard to get you back. Alfred is going to help us. He doesn't like Braginsky any more than we do, and he's in better shape to stand up to him. You won't be there much longer if I've got any say in it._"

Prussia bit his lip to hold back the tears. The affection and ferocity of his brother's tone came through even through Poland's drawling voice. At least, he thought, Ludwig wasn't sure if his letters weren't getting through; he had not been awaiting a response with any real hope. He would not think Gilbert was ignoring him purposefully.

_"I've been taking care of Gilbird for you until you get_ back," continued Poland. "He's_ a funny little bird. It's hard to figure out the right amount of seed for him, and for a while I think he got kind of fat—although he was definitely fat to begin with—but I've gotten it now. He was sad at first, but he's cheered up a little. He misses you. The dogs miss you. I miss you. The house is so quiet when you aren't around, and suddenly the beer doesn't disappear like it used to. There will be plenty of it for you when you get back, don't worry._

_"I've been meaning to tell you, I found your Iron Cross. It fell off your uniform at Berlin. Let me know if you want me to send it back to you, but if not, I'm just going to keep it here in Germany. I haven't touched a thing in your room; it's ready for you as soon as you get back._

_"If you can, please, write back to me so I know you're getting these and I know you're safe and well. If he does anything to you, lays a finger on you, know that I will move heaven and earth to get him back a hundredfold. I pray that's not happening. Even if he's been good to you, I hate that you have to be there. It won't last longer. Alfred has said so himself. He doesn't like the Soviet Union; it's gotten too big, and he thinks it's a threat to him. He's on our side._

_"I hope to see you again very, very soon, big brother. I miss you. All of this nightmare will all be over soon, I swear. Love, Ludwig."_

He looked up from the crumpled letter to find Prussia now completely in tears, and patted his knee lamely in an attempt to console him. "See?" he said, a little awkwardly. "You're not going to be here that much longer if America's going to help your brother. Maybe he'll get all of us out of here, you know?" He sighed. "I'd like that. I miss my ponies and I don't like this house; it's ugly."

He shoved the paper back into his pocket. "I'd better go or Liet will totally be yelling at me. I'll try to steal you more letters, though, okay? You owe me." He clapped a friendly hand on the Prussian's shoulder that Gilbert wished he could return.

Prussia, hating himself for the display of weakness, nodded emphatically, taking a deep, shuddering breath. At least he had only cried in front of Poland, not in front of Russia. _I hope to see you again very, very soon, big brother._ When was the last time Ludwig had called him that?

"Yeah," he said, his voice unsteady. "Whatever you want, Feliks, whatever I can do. Thank you. If—if you ever see my brother, tell him—"

Poland shook his head. "Sorry, Gil, I don't see him; like, apparently Italy was the one who brought the letter, and Latvia got it from him. He isn't really in a state to come see anyone, I bet, but he'll totally try to if he can, don't worry. I'd better go now, really. I'll try to come back and see you." He grinned, his tone more lighthearted. "I want to hear how you got beat up."

Prussia tried to smile. "Okay. Bye, Feliks."

Poland grinned at him, then turned and hurried out. Prussia, no longer concerned with keeping up appearance, finally gave himself over to tears. The letter had been so disjointed and rambling—the words were clearly Ludwig's, but the style was so unlike his usual precise orderliness. He was trying to hide his stress, clearly, but not much could fool a big brother.

_Gott_. Ludwig. He missed him so much. He could see his brother clearly, bent over his desk as he so often was, struggling to find the right words—Ludwig, alone in their home with the dogs, in the emptiness, making sure that no one disturbed his room, hoping that his brother would be back any day.

At least Gilbird was doing well. He tried to cheer himself up with this knowledge, and briefly succeeded a little. He could not help but smile through his tears at the thought of his brother trying to care for the little yellow chick; Gilbird could be petulant and mean around anyone who was not Prussia, and Ludwig had probably received a good few pecks to the fingers before the bird had finally decided that he was a friend.

This momentary cheer only lasted a few seconds before he broke down again into hopeless, silent sobs. The pain in his side was now too much to ignore, on top of all the emotional turmoil going through his head at the moment. Holding himself together was far too difficult at the moment.

This was the first time that the misery of his current situation had really sunk in. He wanted to go home, to see his brother and Gilbird and the dogs again, and in his current state could not even move his hands to wipe away the tears that he tried to prevent running down his face.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_I hadn't even really intended for this to be a chapter at all, but I realized I hadn't really put in a lot of Germany and Prussia and I just really love Ludwig, and I also wanted to introduce that additional depressing element of the letters! So . . . there you go._

_I promise Russia's coming back after this. Like I said, this chapter just kind of happened, and then it was too long to work into the next part so I just split them up. More is coming soon, and then there'll be more blood! Mwahahaha!_

_And also, like I'd said before, I had wanted to bring in some of the other characters, and now's as good a time as any! Still going to bring in Latvia and Estonia and Belarus soon, don't worry._

_Until next time, keep reading and reviewing and favoriting and following! I love seeing the views going up, and every new review and follow and favorite is hugely exciting for me._

_Still with the languages, too—I like it that it's kind of their little act of defiance, you know? Lithuania never speaks his own language anymore, and I don't think any of the Baltics really do; Prussia of course does to Russia's face, and I feel like Hungary and Poland both do whenever they think Russia can't hear them._

**Polish translation (I'm definitely being obnoxious now but I love other languages so much)  
****Cześć**= hello  
**tak **= yes/yeah


	8. Chapter 8

It was a long time before he was able to succumb to sleep again. Too much was going through his head; as soon as he managed to pull himself together and drive from his mind the torment of knowing that Ludwig had written him letters that had been burned, and that he could not respond to the one he had just heard read to him, he remembered Russia's parting words before he had left, before Lithuania and Poland had come in.

He would be back the next day, to take him to his "new room."

Gilbert did not want to think about what this meant. Still, it could hardly be worse than his current state, he decided, unless it meant that he would get fewer visitors. Despite the insistence he had held throughout his life that he preferred to be alone, the vast, mostly-empty house had given him a sense of insignificance, and a need that demanded to be filled with other people. He did not want his only interactions with others to be Russia, coming in to hurt him. He did not want to forget about goodness—something he had always been skeptical of in others, but that now he was beginning to cherish wherever he saw it.

When he finally did drift off into restless sleep, he did not stay asleep for long; it seemed he had only just closed his eyes when he was awoken roughly by the sound of his door slamming open. Briefly confused and disoriented from being jerked awake so quickly, he could see a vague outline of a person—judging purely by the size, it could only be Russia. It was another few seconds before he could finally make his eyes focus. Yes, it was definitely Russia, and in a bad mood, obviously. He was still holding the damned pipe in his hand—did he ever put it down?

"_Priyvet, _GDR," Russia greeted him, his tone cooler than usual. Prussia stared back at him with his usual silent defiance; he was perfectly aware why Ivan was there and he had no interest in engaging in pleasantries. Russia's expression, if anything, became even colder. "I see you do not want to wait any longer," he remarked. "Well, I will oblige you."

He walked over to the end of the bed and, to Prussia's immense relief, at last began to untie the ropes around his ankles. As soon as his legs were freed, he stretched them experimentally; they were desperately sore and stiff, and the movement was uncomfortable. Russia, annoyed at the movement, grabbed his ankle again, then unwrapped the bandages Ukraine had fastened there to prevent chafing. He then moved to the side of the bed and untied the knots there, leaving the ropes still around Prussia's wrists. He immediately lifted his arms and sat up; the unaccustomed movement made his vision go dark for a second and his head to spin; he nearly fell back. Russia watched him, scowling.

He hurt all over, but it was a good kind of pain, blood rushing back into the limbs that had been motionless for so long. Slowly, gingerly, he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and set his feet on the floor, then rose to a standing position, swaying a little.

"Put your boots on," Russia ordered, and Prussia looked down to see with a surge of happiness that the knee-high black combat boots he had been so fond of were lying beside the bed—one possession that had not been taken from him. He reached out to pick them up, delighted to discover that the wool socks were balled up inside them. These he pulled onto his feet, grateful for the protection against the chilly air, then sat down on the bed to tug the boots on over them and tied the laces tight with fingers stiff and clumsy from disuse.

He stood again, looking back down in the hopes of finding his shirt—or, better yet, his military jacket and black gloves as well—then gave Russia a querulous look.

"Where's my shirt?"

Russia ignored this question, reached out to the ropes still hanging around his wrists and pulled on them, making Prussia stumble backwards. Then, to Gilbert's horror, he used the extra rope to tie his hands behind his back.

"N-no, don't!" he protested, trying vainly to struggle out of the bonds. Russia's grip tightened like a vise around his wrists, holding them still. Prussia realized almost immediately that he was completely unable to break his grip in his current condition. "I'm so stiff I can hardly move! I'm not going to try anything, I swear!"

Russia did not respond, except to pull the ropes even tighter, until they were cutting into his wrists. Prussia, who had been desperately looking forward to regaining circulation in his wrists and hands again, pulled against the bonds angrily, hoping to be able to shift them. Russia placed a large, strong hand on the small of his back and gave him a hefty shove forward. Unable to catch himself, the smaller man hit the ground, hard, twisting himself as he fell so he landed heavily on his shoulder rather than on his face.

"_Verdammt_!" he gasped, realizing too late that he had used German once again—this time not in a deliberate attempt to anger the Russian. He rolled over onto his side and tried to rise, to move away or protect himself before the inevitable happened, but he was not quick enough. He got to his knees before Russia aimed a vicious kick at his ribs, and his heavy boot hit flesh with a heavy thud. Prussia collapsed back to the ground—face-up this time, at least—and the back of his head slammed against the ground; he saw stars.

Russia stood over him, huge and terrifying; he looked like he was trying to decide whether to kick him again. Prussia rolled over onto one side, pulling his legs up under him, the only way he could defend himself. "_No German in my household, you Nazi fascist scum_!" Russia half-screamed at him. "I have warned you before, more than once! Never again, do you hear me?"

Prussia managed to rise to his knees again. His head swam; when he placed one foot on the ground and tried to stand, he nearly fell over again. Russia made an exasperated noise through his nose and grabbed him by the ropes around his wrists, hauling him to his feet, bent double, struggling to straighten up.

Russia gave him a push to the back, higher up this time so that he would not off-balance him, and Prussia, though still unsteady, moved forward. The larger man placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward and holding him up at the same time. "Walk," he ordered, and Prussia, deciding that further resistance was pointless at this juncture, obeyed without further protests.

Russia steered him out the door and down the hallway, into the rest of the house that he had never seen before. He had not been missing much, he decided; it was plain, large, and as cold as his room had been. He wished very much that he was wearing a shirt. They walked down two flights of steps before he saw anyone, but then they passed through the kitchen and, with a jolt, he realized that Hungary was working there. Another girl, one he had not seen before, sat at the kitchen table; from her long hair, the same color as Russia's, he guessed that this must be Belarus, the youngest sister and the one Ukraine had told him he had been fortunate to avoid.

He tried to push back a little against the pressure of Russia's hand on his shoulder, to slow him just a little so that he could get a quick look at Hungary—to see if the bruises which had marred Lithuania's face the last time he saw him were visible on hers as well. Despite his best efforts, Russia obviously noticed his attempt to slow down, and shoved him forward harder.

Prussia stumbled again, cursing—this time in English—and Russia's hand slipped off his shoulder. Trying to grab at him, the Russian instead seized at the ends of the ropes around his wrists. The only effect this had was to pull him up enough that he fell on his face instead of on his shoulder. He hit hard, then rolled over onto his back, far angrier than he was hurt, although his nose was bleeding again; his face had left a small crimson mark on the scrubbed kitchen floor.

Hungary, who had been watching out of the corner of her eye, winced before she could stop herself; Belarus, who had been staring at him with rapt attention since he and her brother entered the kitchen, giggled a little.

_Fuck,_ he thought furiously. _If my nose wasn't broken before it definitely is now_. More than anything, though, he hated that Hungary had seen him fall. She was looking at him with genuine concern now, and seemed to be deliberating whether she could get away with saying anything; she had nearly torn the dishcloth in her hands in two in her distress.

Prussia did not want any intervention. He chose to raise himself onto his elbows, his bound hands, balled into fists, pressing uncomfortably into his back—farther away from Russia, and closer to the ground if the huge nation decided to try and knock him down again. "If you'd _untie _me," he shrieked at Russia, "then I could fucking walk on my own!"

He saw Russia's hand ball into a fist again and was grateful that he had stayed closer to the ground; he was out of range. This momentary satisfaction was quickly extinguished, however, as he saw Russia, realizing the position as well as he had, swing at him savagely with the heavy pipe instead. It caught him under the chin, its edge leaving a new gash across his jaw in addition to the bloody nose, and he was knocked backwards, almost at Hungary's feet; she jumped away with a faint cry.

"Mr. Russia, sir," she pleaded, and Prussia hated to hear the submissiveness in her voice. She was not supposed to give in either, damn it. "Sir— Don't you—don't you want me to wash the blood off of Gil—off GDR's face? I can stop the nosebleed—"

Russia turned to look at her, raising his eyebrows.

"Shut up, Hungary," snapped Belarus. Her voice was not quite what Prussia had been expecting; hoarse, sharp, high-pitched, with all of the coldness of Russia's at his angriest. It was a scary voice, he could not help but think. "Brother knows what he's doing," Belarus continued, and she beamed at Russia. "Don't you, Brother, dear?"

Russia gave his sister a nervous look that Prussia did not miss—the first time he had seen the Russian show anything like fear—but then his look turned cold again as he looked down at Prussia, lying bloody-faced on his back with his bound arms twisted beneath him, and addressed Hungary. "_Nyet,_ that will not be necessary. He may as well learn a lesson. He knows better than to speak to me that way, or to try and resist when I am taking him to his new room."

Hungary paled a little at these words. "But if I could just—" she began, insistently.

Prussia glared at her, afraid for her safety if she continued to try and defend him to Russia. "I'm fine," he snapped. "It's just a nosebleed."

Russia smiled down at him, then leaned down to grab one of his arms and drag him to his feet. "_Khorosho_!" he said brightly. "Then let us continue." Prussia tried again to pull away; Russia twisted his bound arms behind him, making him drop to his knees again, face screwed up in silent agony.

Hungary stood frozen, watching this happen with a silent plea in her eyes. "Mr. Russia," she whispered.

Russia turned to smile at her as the hand not holding the pipe closed tightly around Prussia's shoulder again, hauling the smaller nation back to his feet. The awkward, uncomfortable positioning of his arms on top of the blow to the head from falling was making Prussia, who had already been a little unsteady on his feet from the previous lack of movement, even more unstable; even trying to stand up on his own was a difficulty. "Please keep up your work, Hungary," Russia told her pleasantly. "I will worry about my little captive, you worry about the cooking, _da_?"

She was silent. Prussia silently thanked his lucky stars for this; she had already risked too much by trying to help him the first time. He could hardly focus on protecting her when it was all he could do to stay standing, when his head felt like it was going to explode and his vision was going a little shaky around the edges. Russia was leading him almost faster than he could walk.

"Mr. Russia, sir!"

He turned back, still holding Prussia's arm, his expression darker this time. _"What_, Hungary?"

"Er—sir," she said, appealingly, "if you would just tell me where will the GDR be staying? S-so I'll know where to bring his meals, sir."

Russia laughed and pulled Prussia out of the kitchen after him without responding.

Prussia, who was now being half-dragged backwards, managed a parting glance at the girl, who was looking after them with a pained look on her face, still twisting the dishcloth in her hands. He saw her mouth something after him.

_Be strong_.

Like he needed to hear that; like anyone needed to tell _him_ to be strong.

He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but the blood all over his nose and mouth and the fresh bruise blossoming on the side of his pale face were going to make any expression far from reassuring.

They began to descend another flight of stairs—just how big was this damn house, anyway?—and Prussia suddenly felt the air temperature become at least twenty degrees colder than the already brisk temperature of the upstairs. Goosebumps raised along the bare skin of his upper torso, and all at once he realized why Ukraine had been concerned that he might have died if he had been put in the basement initially.

_Scheiße_. He wished he had known this so that he could have begged a shirt from Ukraine first; she would have taken pity on him. His fingers, nose, and ears were already numb.

All at once, he made the decision to begin to struggle violently again. He knew that it would not do any good, but adrenaline was already pumping through his veins from being thrown to the floor in the kitchen, and he wanted a fight. It was a feeling he'd had many times before, though usually he was facing someone either not as strong as he was, not as skilled as he was, or both, and he was able to defend himself when this was not the case.

He knew even as he twisted angrily in the Russian's iron grip that this was a ridiculous attitude at the best of times, and was borderline suicidal in his current position, but he did not care. He'd not had a good fight in too long, and, while this would hardly be a good fight, it was something. They had reached a landing on the flight of stairs, so he had something like solid footing for a brief space of time.

Russia was caught off guard by his unexpected thrashing and let go of his arm in surprise; before he could grab it again, Prussia had moved away to kick at him with all the strength he still had. Even without the use of his hands he could still use his elbows and head and feet to cause plenty of damage. Russia lunged for him and Prussia brought his head up as fast as he could, meeting Russia's face with a cracking sound. Ha—now they had matching bloody noses.

He laughed, almost hysterically, trying to back away in the confined space. He had lost the element of surprise, and the fight was already over now, but he had given the Russian a few bruises and a bloody nose and what would probably turn into a black eye, so it was all worth it

He had exhausted his room to manuever, his back now against the icy stone wall, and then Russia's hand closed around his throat with crushing strength, lifted him into the air, slammed him against the wall, and dropped him to the ground again. Prussia collapsed at his feet, shoulders twisted around so that his arms were pulled to one side, one of the stairs above the landing hitting him square in the back, and a grunt of pain forced its way past his lips against his will. Russia placed a boot on his bare chest and shoved him back, pushing the stair into his back harder. These were not the same ones he had been wearing outside Berlin, Prussia realized very quickly; these had short, sharp nails jutting from the bottom, likely for better traction on ice, and all of these nails were now buried in his flesh, crimson blood already trickling down his pale skin. The white-haired nation gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to make another sound. His heart was beating very quickly.

With his prisoner once more under control, Russia's fierce, vicious fighting faded, to be replaced with a colder, calculating attitude. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of a gloved hand, then raised his foot slightly, tugging a little to remove the short nails from Gilbert's flesh, but left it resting gently on his chest, pinning him while he considered the man beneath his foot like a specimen about to be dissected in a lab.

Prussia was panting, but despite having the breath knocked out of him once again by being slammed into the wall, and despite the almost unbearable pain in his back from being dropped on the stair and on his chest from the multiple shallow puncture wounds, he was happier than he had been in a while; at last, he could show some real resistance, more than speaking German in front of Russia and refusing to answer his questions. And the movements had made the blood run faster in his veins, warming him in the bitter cold.

He laughed manically in Russia's face, deep crimson eyes bright and flashing with strength of will, and watched with something between the fury return again, replacing the cold curiosity.

"You Nazis have no idea when you are beaten," Russia spat at him. His voice held a tone of savage cruelty as he pressed his foot down again, even harder than he had before. His boot had shifted since he had taken off some of the pressure, and now the renewed pressure punctured new wounds in Prussia's chest. He drew in his breath in a hiss, refusing to let a cry escape his lips. He would not back down. He stared up at Russia defiantly, insolence and hatred written plainly on each sharp, pale, bloodstained feature.

Russia scowled at this continued defiance."Soon you will be screaming and begging me for mercy instead of laughing, nasty little Prussian. And as much as I look forward to that day, I am even more looking forward to breaking you down until you never laugh again."

Prussia did not respond. Russia glanced down the rest of the stairs and said conversationally, "Let us continue. But first, clearly I have allowed you too much freedom of movement."

"What? Fuck you, no—"

Russia pulled another length of rope from his pocket and wrenched Prussia's muscular shoulders back to tie his elbows together as well as his wrists, effectively immobilizing his arms. Prussia gasped, cursed with pain and anger, and tried to pull away without success.

Russia then knelt down beside the bound, prone figure, and lifted him up enough to half-push, half-throw him down the remaining stairs. He followed after him at a more leisurely pace.

Prussia lay at the foot of the stairs, breathing shallow, scarcely moving, having rolled over onto his side in an attempt to take as much pressure off his strained shoulders and arms as possible.

Russia leaned over him, beaming. "You will not last long, _moy malyutka_. But you will be fun while you last."

Prussia wanted very much to stare defiantly back at Russia, but he could scarcely focus his eyes. He was acutely aware of all his new injuries. There was definitely broken skin on his back from being pressed into the step, as well as his still-bleeding nose and the puncture wounds dotting his chest, and he knew that the next day the pale skin on his torso and neck would be covered with new bruises. His shoulders and arms were already starting to go numb from their strained position.

"Get up," Russia told him coldly. When Prussia did not move, he kicked at him with a hobnailed boot again, with less force than he had before, but still enough to make the small white-haired nation gasp and try to obey this time. He made it to his knees before collapsing face-first again with a grunt of pain.

"_Get up_," repeated Russia angrily. Prussia tried again; this time he was unable to even make to his knees. He had no leverage with his tightly secured arms, and he did not have the strength after falling down the stairs to lift himself to his feet without them.

The pipe in Russia's hand tapped against the smaller nation's temple, ruffling his blood-matted white hair, not hard enough to hurt him: a warning. "That was not a suggestion, GDR." His voice was pitiless, colder even than the frigid air of the basement. "Get up. Now."

"I'm fucking _trying_," Prussia spat, but as soon as he said this he realized that he was fighting a hopeless battle. He was not getting any farther; his head was beginning to hurt even more and his mind to go blurry, and the slightest movement made him nauseated. He managed to roll onto his side again, pulled his legs up under him, and coughed heavily, trying to catch his breath.

Russia waited for another few seconds, watching him struggle; then, understanding that it was a lost cause, grabbed him by his upper arms and hauled him to his feet. When Prussia nearly collapsed again once he was standing on his own, Russia gave up and simply dragged him the rest of the way, holding onto one of his forearms as Prussia tried to find his balance again.

He made his way down a cold hallway to a closed door, dropped Prussia none too gently to the ground to dig in his pockets for the key, unlocked it, then pulled Prussia half off the ground again and shoved him forward into the room he had just unlocked—a room that was, if possible, even colder than the rest of the icy basement. Prussia stumbled, trying for a second to stand up, and fell to knees heavily. His head fell against his chest, allowing the blood from his nose to further mark his white torso with bright splashes of red.

"Welcome to your new home," Russia told his prisoner genially, in a caustic imitation of politeness. "What do you think, little GDR?"

Despite the haziness still fighting to gain possession of both his vision and his consciousness, Prussia managed to lift his head to take in his surroundings. The room was dark, but there was a small window high on the wall. A bed in the corner—or at least, a ratty-looking mattress with a blanket on it. Better than nothing. Chains on the walls in various places.

He turned back to Russia, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? It's freezing down here."

Russia shrugged. "I am sorry you do not like it, but if you were unhappy in the room I put you in before, this is the best I can do. I do not have any more guest rooms to spare." He grinned maliciously. "Now, are you going to beg me to untie you before I leave you down here?"

Prussia paled. He had not considered that the Russian would leave him like this, tied so tightly he could not move, his shoulders in agony and the ropes around his wrists and elbows cutting into his flesh. He turned himself on his knees to face the larger nation, leaning forward to maintain a low center of gravity so he would not fall over, fear in his eyes that he could not quench. Russia was smiling, waiting. He bit back an appeal for mercy, refused to let a plea come to his lips.

"Then you can spend the rest of the day and tonight like this," Russia told him, smiling. "I will untie you tomorrow; I have other plans then. It is nothing to me if that is what you want. Still, I suppose you cannot really eat in your current state, then—why, look at you, you can barely sit up on your own!—so you will not eat until then either."

This bothered Prussia less than the thought of being bound so painfully for so long. He was a soldier. He had gone without food before. He watched Russia's face, searching for some trace of empathy in his violet eyes, and found none. Russia continued to smile at him, waiting without much expectation for the small, heavily bloodstained nation to beg.

"If this is what you want," he said at last, "then I will comply. I am being very good to you, _moy dorogoy_. I have done nothing you have asked me not to do."

Prussia was too exhausted to even curse at him. The darkness which had been threatening to overcome him was still, tantalizingly, lingering just at the edge of his consciousness. Unconsciousness would be a blessed relief, but he was beginning to realize that Russia had been sadistically careful to leave him just conscious enough to be horribly aware of the pain, both of his wounds and the brutal bonds.

Russia began to walk towards the door, then hesitated, leaned his pipe carefully against the wall, and came back slowly. Prussia was still kneeling on the floor, bent almost double to keep himself stable, and Russia pushed his shoulders backwards until he fell on his back against the floor, drawing in his breath at the shock of the sudden cold of the stone. Russia left one hand pressed against his sternum, holding him down as Prussia tried to roll over to move his arms from beneath him.

"W-what are you doing?" Prussia stammered, the unsteadiness in his tone as much from his chattering teeth as from fear.

"Relax, little one. I just want to see how you are doing." He ran a hand over Prussia's chest as he had a few days before, now looking at the small puncture wounds he had left with the nails on his boots. He chuckled. "Ha, I had forgotten I was wearing those boots." He paused, then chuckled again lightheartedly. "I suppose it was for the best, though, they taught a better lesson."

Prussia scowled. He wanted to spit at him—maybe then the stupid Russian would finally get angry enough to knock him out, which would be nice—but thought better of it. He had been in this position before and it was when he had showed defiance that Russia had put his finger into the wound on his side to torture him—the wound that, even with a nation's quick healing ability, still sometimes hurt him. No, it was too much to hope for that he would be so careless as to allow his prisoner the gift of unconsciousness.

Prussia realized with another pang of misery that he was probably in far too much pain and discomfort to sleep much that night, either, even if he could get to the bed. With his bound arms, this would present a major problem, and forget about trying to cover himself with the blanket.

"Goodness, there are a lot of these. Still, I suppose it can't be helped. And your nose is bleeding again." He moved his hand up to Prussia's neck and jaw, poking and prodding. "You have some new bruises, too," he informed him. "And there is a gash along your jaw, too. I do not know why you want all of these, little GDR, they seem to me to be entirely unnecessary."

Prussia tried to rise a little, but was too weak to move at all, even under Russia's single hand. Russia noticed his attempt and seemed pleased.

"Do you remember when I asked you if you had many scars on your back?" he inquired. "And you told me not many. Well, I think I saw a new one on your back today. Sit up, I want to look." He removed his hand from Prussia's sternum; the small nation just lay there, looking up at him for a second before Russia moved his hand toward the fresh wounds again, his purpose clear, and Prussia immediately began to struggle to rise—without success.

Russia sighed, then reached out, took a handful of Gilbert's bloodstained white hair in his hand, and used this grip to haul him into a sitting position. Prussia did not make a sound, but his face was even whiter than usual, his teeth gritted and his eyes tight shut. Russia placed a hand on the back of his neck to hold him in his sitting position, then ran his hand along the wound the stair had caused. Mostly it would just be a huge bruise, to Russia's disappointment, but there was a long, deep scrape there as well, ragged and bleeding and ugly.

"I suppose it will have to do for now," he observed, "but I do not like it that there are so many scars and cuts and bruises just on your front, little one, and none on your back. I will have to fix this."

He removed his hand from the back of Prussia's neck and Prussia fell backwards, unable to stop himself; he managed to lift his head before it hit the ground to avoid another blow there, but immediately rested his head against the cold ground, too exhausted to try and look up any further.

"Well," Russia said, pleased, "I suppose you want to be left alone now, my pet. Sleep well tonight." He rose to his feet, leaving Prussia still lying on the floor, and opened the door again to leave. He turned back briefly to smile one more time at his small, bloodstained prisoner. "Tomorrow the fun _really_ starts, _da?"_

The door closed behind him and Prussia heard the key turn in the lock.

* * *

**Author's note**

_Thanks so much to all of you who have continued to read, and_ _especially__ to those of you who have reviewed! I feel bad that not a lot has been happening in each chapter, but I do like to get this stuff to you as soon as I think of it and it's easier this way than if I make these chapters all 10,000 words!_

_Still, though, I'm really pleased with the progress so far. I like this chapter (and hope all of you do too). It's the longest so far, and might be one of my favorites. Still haven't hit that writer's block I was worried about, and still haven't been able to find a summer job, so you guys are in luck._

_Please review if you've read it, let me know what you think; favorite, follow, whatever. Nothing makes me happier, or gives me more drive to keep going, than seeing a new review!_

_You already know most of the stuff in these translations, as I've used most of them before, but I'm going to continue to put them here for reference anyway._

**German translation  
****Verdammt** = damn it  
**Scheiße **= shit

**Russian translation  
****Nyet** = no  
**Khorosho** = good  
**da** = yes  
**moy malyutka** = my little one  
**moy dorogoy** = my dear


	9. Chapter 9

Once Russia was gone and the door had been closed and locked behind him, Prussia found himself sobbing again.

He was so, so cold, unable to raise himself off the icy floor to move to the bed, unable to wrap the blanket, thin as it was, around his bare shoulders. His shoulders hurt so much in their wrenched-back position, the rope cutting ever more deeply into his upper arms and wrists, and yet even this was not enough to distract him from the soreness in his back from where the stair had dug in, leaving what he was sure was a hefty bruise at best; or from the puncture wounds all over his chest, far more painful than they looked; or even from the infuriating tickling sensation of blood running down his face from his bleeding nose or down his throat from the gash in his jaw—or, now, also from the tears streaming from his eyes that he no longer even cared enough to try and stop.

Ordinarily he could have used his shoulder to wipe the blood from his face, but the bonds around his elbows were so tight and had pulled his shoulders so far back that this was no longer an option. He was utterly helpless, unable to so much as lift himself a few inches from the ground, and in a hundred different kinds of pain, and awaiting whatever Russia's idea of "fun" was the next day.

What now? Was he just supposed to sleep here, on the freezing floor already spotted with his own blood, bare-chested in the icy cold? He had tried a few times to raise himself and failed miserably each time. There was hardly much else to do, and being awake was not looking so good right about now. Thank goodness for the window, at least; he could tell, vaguely, what time it was. He forced himself to raise his head, to look outside, and was horrified to see that it was still light outside—light, in Russia, meant it was likely midday. Another half a day of this torture, in addition to all of the night.

He had hoped that Ukraine, or someone, would come in to care for his wounds; it was in Russia's best interests, surely, to keep him healthy enough that he was fully aware of whatever was done to him?

This thought cheered him a little. It made sense that Russia would not tell him anyone was coming to take care of him—despair was as powerful a weapon as physical torture, this he knew well. But he also knew that she had to be coming. He had lost a lot of blood from the various wounds, not enough to be life-threatening but enough that he would be weaker and less lucid if he lost any more. Russia would not want that. Weaker, maybe, but he would not want his prisoner to be out of it.

Maybe Ukraine would untie him, though he doubted this. Then he could _move. _He just wanted use of his arms back.

Suddenly he desperately wanted to work out. He could not remember the last time he had done a push-up; with his brother, probably, working out together in the mornings as they so often did.

Sometimes they would race to see who could get to a certain number faster. Gilbert was faster from the start, and he would always beat his brother up to about fifty, then he would tire out and his little brother would catch up. Ludwig could always win when they were competing for sheer numbers. They would take turns choosing the contests, and the loser would have to buy the winner a beer.

And then, all at once, he could definitely remember the last time he had done a push-up. They had been racing to seventy-five that time, and it had been close, but West had emerged the winner, hitting seventy-five as Gilbert finished his seventy-second. He had made his older brother finish the last three, counting them with dramatic slowness and pushing him over with a laugh once he had finished.

"Looks like you owe me a beer, _Bruder__."_

"_Ja, ja,"_ Gilbert had responded, aiming a teasing punch at his brother's sore arm. "_Fahr zur Hölle, Arschloch._ I'll buy your stupid beer today, but I'll get you next time."

"You're getting old, East," Ludwig shot back, laughing. He flexed a well-muscled arm with justifiable pride. "Face it, you can't compete with this anymore."

_Fuck. Don't think of Ludwig, Gott verdammt, don't think of Ludwig. Think of Ekaterina. Or maybe Liz will come!—No, don't get your hopes up. Think of Kat. She's got to come in eventually. Think of something else._

His belief was not misplaced. Sure enough, a few hours later the door did open and he saw the familiar sight of the large-chested blonde nation, her bag slung over one shoulder.

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly when she saw him, lying on the cold floor still shirtless, bleeding, and tied up, and he saw her shoulders stiffen, but she quickly got herself under control and put a warm smile on her face carefully devoid of too much sympathy—a practiced move, he could not help but think.

"Hello, dear," she said, in an even voice that suggested she had seen this kind of thing before—as, indeed, she probably had, Prussia thought uncomfortably, remembering Russia's earlier words about Lithuania. "I've just come to . . . clean you up a bit, all right? I don't want you to lose too much blood."

As he had expected. They were primarily concerned with his potentially losing consciousness. Regardless, he was glad to see her, and if she was planning to wash the new wound on his back she would likely need to untie his arms, or at least loose the bonds a little.

Ukraine eased herself to the floor to sit on her knees beside him. He lay on his side, watching her with narrowed red eyes.

"Are you—" Ukraine hesitated. "Are you all right, honey?"

Prussia gave a laugh which turned almost immediately into another cough. It sounded like he was getting sick, and he supposed in this cold his condition would only continue to deteriorate. Still, he nodded fiercely once he had caught his breath. Let Ukraine, who had probably been told to ask him this by her brother, tell Russia he was doing well, that he was still strong, that he was able to take anything.

"Yeah," he said, his voice not as confident as he would have liked. "But it's cold as fuck down here and it'd be nice to be able to get off the floor."

She bit her lip anxiously. "I can help you to the bed, dear," she told him, "and cover you with the blanket once I've cleaned these up. Can you stand?"

"Yeah," Prussia snapped at her bitterly, "I'm just lying here half-naked in a pool of my own blood for fun."

Usually he was polite to Ukraine, grateful for whatever she was able to do for him, but he was not in the mood today; he should have been, he thought in the back of his mind, grudgingly—she'd had nothing to do with his changed circumstances, and she was trying to help him, and it was in his best interests to be good to her if he intended to ask favors of her. Fortunately, Ukraine seemed understanding. She helped pull him to a sitting position and then, as he struggles to find his footing, a little lightheaded now from blood loss, she placed a hand on his shoulder and supported him to the faded, dingy mattress in the corner, helping him to lay down on his side again, facing her so that she could better get at the puncture wounds in his chest.

After the freezing cold floor, even what little softness and warmth the bed offered was welcome. He relaxed a little. Ukraine unlaced his boots and carefully laid them aside. Prussia did not protest, though he wanted to; they had been keeping his feet much warmer than socks alone could do, and the mattress was already dirty enough that a pair of boots touching them would hardly make a difference.

"Kat?"

She had begun to rummage in her bag for something, but looked up when she heard her name. "Yes, dear?"

"Can you untie me?"

He saw the pity in her eyes even as she shook her head emphatically. "No, dear, I can't. I would be in so much trouble if I did."

"Please. You can tie me again once you're through. Not even my wrists, just my elbows. Please. I can barely feel my shoulders anymore." He could play on her sympathies, he knew; even if she was related to Russia, she had a protective older-sister instinct that he guessed would make it hard for her to resist helping someone in pain. "It hurts," he said softly, and saw the pity in her face increase. But she looked frightened.

"I don't know—he specifically told me—"

Prussia sat up a little, rolling over so she could see the bruise and the wound on his back. "Look," he said, "that'll have to be cleaned too and I can scarcely move my arms now, you won't be able to unless you loosen the ropes." He turned back to her. "And they're cutting into my skin, too."

She hesitated, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap; then, as if trying to avoid the decision, she ducked her head and began searching through her bag again until she came up with a bottle and a rag and some bandages. Then she looked up anxiously and saw that he was still watching her, his expression pleading.

"I suppose I'll have to untie your elbows," she relented at last, uncertainly, "—only if I retied them after I'm done—but I've got to leave your wrists."

He nodded eagerly, a silent shout of victory playing through his head. "Thank you," he told her sincerely, and she smiled a little.

"You're welcome, dear. Now, where all are you hurt?"

Prussia tried to mentally catalogue his new injuries. "My back, my chest, my jaw and my nose," he said at last. "I think that's all. A couple of bumps and bruises besides that."

Ukraine nodded, though he could see in the now dimming light that she looked a little dubious.

"What?"

"A _few_ bumps and bruises?"

Surprised, Prussia glanced down at himself. The bruises from falling down the stairs were beginning to develop, yellow and red and purple splotches of color against his white skin, far more than he had anticipated, and he supposed his arms and back were just as bad, though he could not really see them.

"It's fine," he said, with as much confidence as he could manage. Now he had gotten what he wanted, he hated to see the pity in her eyes; he did not want needless sympathy if he stood to gain nothing by it.

She pulled herself together quickly and tried to smile. "All right," she said. "Turn around and I'll untie your elbows. Promise me you won't try anything?"

"I swear," said Prussia, and he meant it. The word of a soldier was always good. He took a great deal of pride in keeping his promises with honor—though his promises were usually more along the lines of "I swear I will find you and kill you if you try anything again."

He turned his back to Ukraine and felt, with a huge surge of relief, that she was tugging at the knotted ropes that held his shoulders strained back and his arms in agony. The rope fell away and he gave a small moan of relief as he pulled his stiff shoulders forward at last, the feeling returning to them with a pins-and-needles sensation.

Ukraine made a small, disturbed noise behind his back. "Oh, dear," she murmured, concerned, "your arms look awful."

Now that the cold air was hitting the skin that had been under the ropes, and the blood was rushing back to the area, he realized that it was beginning to sting. He twisted his arms around so that he could look and was startled to see that the ropes—far from leaving a scratched red mark, as he had been expecting—had dug into his skin and rubbed it completely raw, leaving a mass of bleeding scrapes and cuts in the gouged muscle, in addition to a circular bruise now running around his arm above the elbow, where he had pulled against his bonds so hard that the ropes had cut through skin and flesh.

He was a little shocked at the extent of the damage, he could not help but admit, but maybe this could be used to his advantage.

"You could just leave my arms untied," he offered hopefully.

"No," Ukraine said immediately, in a pained voice. "I can't, or Ivan will know I untied you—and I can't even bandage underneath them before I retie them, because then he'd also know. Oh, dear, I'm so, so sorry. At least he left the bandages on around your wrists."

Shit. This was going to hurt. He wished he had not looked at the damage.

"Can you sit up against the wall?"

Prussia, now better able to move, lifted himself to a sitting position with his bound hands and shifted his body gingerly until he was leaning against the wall, pulling his shoulders forward awkwardly so that his wounded forearms would not make contact with the wall.

"I'm afraid we're very low on medicine, dear," Ukraine said anxiously, "but I've got vodka to wash out your wounds. It's a good antiseptic, but—but it might sting a little more than the other medicine did, okay?"

"I don't care."

She dampened the rag in the clear liquid—the strong alcoholic smell almost made Prussia's eyes water—and pressed it first to the gash across his jaw, making him gasp at the stinging. He gritted his teeth and let her continue to work her way from his jaw down to the puncture wounds—thankfully, she did not ask how he had gotten them.

"Turn your back to me," she ordered, and he obeyed silently, though as slowly as he was able without seeming to appear weak. She had worked far faster than he had been expecting, and once she was done he knew he would have to be tied tightly again. The thought made him feel sick.

He could feel her dabbing at the wound and bit his tongue, hard, to keep from crying out. It was deeper that he had realized. She was murmuring to herself, sounding distressed, but he could not make out what she was saying until she finally spoke up.

"I don't know what to do about your arms. . . I really had better do _something_, but . . ." She trailed off. "He'll be angry with both of us if I do."

"I don't give a shit if he's angry at me. What's he going to do to you? You're his sister, for God's sake."

She bit her lip again. The habit was beginning to irritate Prussia. However, she did not answer, just finished cleaning the wound on his back and told him to lie back again. He obeyed, once again careful to spare his torn upper arms as much as possible.

"Wait—no, I've got to tie your arms again," Ukraine said apologetically. "You'd better sit up again." She was already holding the short length of bloodstained rope in her hand, albeit with some distaste.

"Can't you stay here for a little while more?" appealed Prussia, not moving, and he saw the hesitation in her face with a spark of hope. "Then you won't have to retie them right away."

"I'm sorry—"

"Or you could come back tomorrow morning before Russia does and retie them."

She was near tears again. "I'm sorry—this is so hard." She wiped her eyes and then her nose on the back of her hand. "I don't know when Ivan is coming back, Gilbert, dear, and I can't risk it. You'd be wearing those ropes for a week if he found you without them."

The thought made Prussia shudder instinctively. Already, almost unconsciously, he had flexed his shoulders as far as they would go, relishing what small freedom of movement he still had.

Suddenly the door opened again and Ukraine leapt to her feet, then sank back down to the ground in relief when she saw who it was. Instead of Russia, it was Belarus. She held a knife in her hand for some reason, but still, Prussia thought, it was much better than the alternative. His heart had begun to pound and adrenaline had pumped through his veins upon hearing the door, and he was a little shaky with the relief.

Belarus crossed the room with bouncing steps and sat down next to her sister, staring unabashedly at Prussia. Glad for the new arrival—though her entrance had nearly made his heart stop—Prussia stared back, smirking.

"Kat," the younger nation said, continuing to stare raptly at Prussia, "what happened to him?"

Ukraine did not respond. Belarus poked at the puncture wounds in Prussia's chest and he swore and tried to move away from her, making her laugh a little. She addressed him instead.

"Did Brother do that?"

Prussia nodded. Belarus looked momentarily surprised, then nodded too, as if accepting this answer. "Then I suppose it's good," she said, satisfied.

"Why don't you go upstairs, Natalya?" Ukraine said in a low voice. "I was just about to leave too."

Maybe she would leave without tying him again, Prussia thought hopefully. He could not read her thoughts in her face; she looked a little nervous, as always, but it might have be fear and might have been sympathy.

Suddenly he remembered Russia's nervous glance at Belarus in the kitchen, and was struck with an idea. Belarus's friendship could be very valuable to him. She did not seem to have any of the uncertainty of Ukraine; clearly, she was perfectly comfortable in the basement and confident in her permission to be there, and if she came to visit him he might be free of Russia while she stayed.

He addressed Belarus directly. "You said your name was Natalya?"

She eyed him suspiciously. She was very pretty, he could not help but think, with large blue eyes and a white bow in her long hair. "Yes," she said. "And I know who you are. You're the German Democratic Republic."

_That fucking name._

"Just . . . Gilbert," he requested. "Or East. Hell, or Prussia."

Her eyes widened a little. "Why?"

"Because those are the names I prefer to be called. I'm only the GDR now because—" He remembered the worshipful way she had addressed her brother, and caught himself before saying something derogatory about Russia. "I just like the old ones better," he amended.

"We'd better go, Natalya," repeated Ukraine. Belarus ignored her.

"Prussia doesn't exist anymore. You look awful. I don't know why Brother wanted you at all, to be honest. I was hoping we'd get Italy. He's funny. What happened to your arms?"

_Scheiße_, he hadn't wanted her to draw attention to that. Ukraine jumped, turned around, and looked down at the piece of rope she still held in her hand. "Oh, dear. Of course, before I go I have to—"

Prussia edged away from her on the mattress, backing himself against the wall where she could not pull his arms behind his back. "No!"

Belarus looked from Prussia to her sister, excited. "Ekaterina, are you going to hurt him?"

This made Ukraine look like she was going to cry again. She did not answer her sister, but instead turned to Prussia, appealing. "Please, dear. For both of our sakes."

For her sake. The former Teutonic Knight still had all the chivalry of his younger days, and he knew perfectly well that a little pain was worth to protect a lady.

Grudgingly, he moved away from the wall and turned his back to her, not making a sound as she pulled his arms back tightly and bound his elbows together, the rope digging into the bloody wounds already there. He fought to keep the tears back, from pain, from despair at the thought of spending the rest of the night like this, from humiliation at being forced to allow this kind of treatment.

"I'm so sorry," she told him, laying a hesitant hand on his numbing shoulder, and he mumbled an insincere "Not your fault" through gritted teeth.

She then rose and walked out; Belarus followed, slowly, but continued to watch him until she was out the door and peered behind it before she closed it. That, at least, was hopeful. He could only hope she would come back later. Until then, he had only the agonizing pain in his arms to distract him from the anticipation of Russia's arrival the next morning.

It would be a long night.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_DAMN do the German brothers give me so many feels._

_Question . . . Do you guys see a problem with Gilbert actually asking Ukraine for help? I don't think he'd have the same misgivings about asking her for help as he would, say, begging Russia for pity. In Russia's case, of course, his doing so would be a victory for Russia. In Ukraine's case, if he can convince her to do things for him that's a victory for him. And I think he feels a little like he's going to be able to use her to get what he wants. There's a small element of manipulation and control there, a chance to regain some power over the situation in whatever way he can._

_Still, I would welcome your opinions; I'm interested to see what you think. Please also tell me what you thinkif Belarus! Do you like this portrayal of her? Is it accurate?_

_As always, let me know if there's something you want changed._

_Please review if you've read it; I welcome constructive criticism as well as positive feedback! I also love to see favorites and follows. :D_

_I also haven't properly thanked those of you who have reviewed so far: thank you, **rookanga**, **takelo14**, **KarlyCupcake**, **SM-13, princessofd, **and three guests! I loved reading your reviews so much, and hearing what people think is a great incentive to keep going!_

**German translation**

**Bruder** = brother  
**Ja** = yes  
**Fahr zur Hölle =** go to hell**  
Arschloch **= asshole  
**Nein danke** = no thank you  
**Scheiße** = shit


	10. Chapter 10

The light outside had dimmed at last; this could only mean that it was nearing to nighttime. Prussia shifted awkwardly to lie down on his side, accidentally dislodging the blanket as he did so. There was no way he would be able to retrieve it. He muttered a curse in German under his breath, enjoying the sound of the German words despite his discomfort.

All of his hurts, those mostly healed as well as the fresh ones, were stinging in the cold air; the vodka, whether or not it was a good antiseptic, hurt like fuck in the open wounds, though he had tried not to show his discomfort in front of Ukraine and Belarus. He initially could not decide whether he wanted to try and cherish these last moments before Russia came in or just try to sleep, but quickly came to the conclusion that there was not much to cherish; his shoulders were numb, his arms in pain, all of his fresh wounds burning from the vodka, and he was freezing cold, not to mention exceptionally uncomfortable in his awkward position on the thin mattress.

This meant, however, that he could not fall asleep for a long time. He had been in enough battles, enough stressful situations, that he had learned to take advantage of any opportunity for rest: learned to relax himself, to gradually shut down his mind and ease himself into sleep. He had never been in a situation like this before, though, and his usual techniques were not working. He was finding it impossible to ignore the thoughts and emotions swirling around in his head: the pain, the anger, the frustration—the fear that he refused to admit to feeling. In addition, it was nearly impossible to relax in his current state. His arms were under so much strain that they would never be comfortable, and they hurt too much to simply ignore.

Bitterly, he realized that he had also carefully trained himself not to shut down under pain, to fight through it, to use it to stay alert rather than to let it overwhelm him. This was now working against any ability to sleep when able, and it was a skill which had been useful in war, where he could fight and scarcely notice his wounds, but which would be nothing but trouble now. He _wanted_ to be able to shut down, and now he could not.

Deciding for the moment to give up, he instead tried to shift his mind to something—anything—besides his current circumstances, besides the pain, besides the cold feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach and the apprehension because he had no idea what Russia intended. His mind refused to come up with anything positive. _Think of family_, he thought, then quickly shut down this idea; any thought of Ludwig or the other Germanics would only make things worse. He had managed to keep his homesickness at bay and would not give up now.

At last, unable to think of anything else, his mind came to rest on something he had given little thought since childhood, and he was saying words under his breath that he had not spoken for years.

"_Gegrüßet seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade, der Herr ist mit dir. Du bist gebenedeit unter den Frauen, und gebenedeit ist die Frucht deines Liebes, Jesus. Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, bitte für uns Sünder jetzt und in der Stune unseres Todes. Amen."_

The words came easily to his lips and at last he felt himself relax, comforted by the familiar German. He repeated the prayer several more times, more than he had spoken at once in his entire period of captivity, and before long he had drifted off to sleep at last.

* * *

He had expected to be awoken by the sound of the door opening, of Russia coming in early to catch him off guard when he was still half-asleep, but he instead woke up naturally when the sun began to creep in through the small window. Despite his circumstances, it appeared he had slept soundly; the blanket still covered most of him, although he had expected to find it on the floor.

He shifted himself a little to look around, to see if anything had changed, and immediately regretted it as the blanket slipped off his shoulders and the icy air hit them. Trying to distract himself from this new annoyance, he looked around the room properly. He had looked around yesterday, but had been dazed from hitting his head so many times that he had not been able to take advantage of the brief daylight.

It was not so small as he had initially thought. Chains hung from the walls in many places, including the ceiling, and he saw with a small pang of apprehension that there was blood on the floor—more than what he had left there the previous day—and on the walls. The window was too high to look out of if he stood next to it, with a small pane of glass inside that he guessed was still too thick to break. He could not have climbed through the window, even at his full strength and unbound, because of its size, but he guessed Russia would not want him trying to commit suicide by slitting his wrists with the broken glass. It was not a possibility he had considered until now, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He had to stay alive. His brother needed him. And he would not be in the Soviet Union for much longer; it would all be over soon.

The brief daylight came and went without Russia's appearance, until it was once more dark in the cell, though this might have meant it was early afternoon. Prussia grew more and more nervous as the day dragged on, jumping every time he heard a sound. The only positive aspect of this heightened anxiety was that he had finally managed to ignore the pain in his shoulders and arms, although every now and then he would try to move again and remember. By now he had shifted so much that the blanket had fallen completely to the floor. The cold was nearly unbearable.

He couldn't believe he was saying this but _fuck_ he just wanted Russia to come in, to break up the monotony; the waiting in scared anticipation was far worse than anything the stupid Soviet could dish out. He pulled again as hard as he could at the ropes around his arms, wincing a little as he felt them dig into his skin further. Blood might have been trickling from the wounds there, but the combination of the cold and their strained position had ensured that he could not feel his arms at all anymore.

_Come the hell in here, you stupid fucker. Do your worst. I'm not afraid of you; the awesome Prussia has nothing to fear from a big idiot bastard like you. I never have and I never will. I know what you're doing by waiting, you're trying to throw me off guard, to unnerve me, and it's not working_.

He said these words to himself in his head with all the confidence he could muster, knowing in the back of his mind that it was working beautifully. He was in agony waiting, utterly helpless, with no way of knowing how much longer he would be left alone, painfully aware that he would not be untied until Russia came in.

In an attempt to distract himself, he once again began the Hail Mary, murmuring the words rapidly under his breath as if by speeding up the prayer he could somehow also hasten the ponderous passage of time. "_Gegrüßet seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade, der Herr ist_—"

The sound of a key in the lock.

Prussia broke off abruptly, feeling his heart begin to pound and adrenaline rush through his veins, overwhelmed with both excitement and fear. There was a click from the other side of the wall and the heavy wooden door was pushed open with measured slowness and Russia was standing there at last.

Prussia struggled to sit up, pushing himself against the wall so that he could face Russia. He wished that he could stand, but was well aware that this was out of the question in his current state. Russia was smiling; clearly, Prussia thought, inwardly cursing, his sense of helplessness and his frustration were evident on his face.

He walked to the center of the room and pulled a thin chain hanging there, and suddenly the room was flooded with light from a single bulb on the ceiling that Prussia had not even noticed before. He was holding the pipe in his hand, as well as a knife tucked into his belt; Prussia recognized it as the one Belarus had been carrying the previous day, or at least one like it.

"_Priyvet, _GDR," he greeted him cheerfully. "How did you sleep?"

Prussia did not answer. He was watching the pipe mistrustfully, his red eyes narrowed in his pale face.

Russia sighed, then walked across the room to where Prussia sat against the wall. He knelt on the mattress, facing the unmoving younger nation, then buried his hand in his white hair and used it as a grip to pull him up until Prussia was on his knees, teeth gritted, furious. He then stood, pulling Prussia up further.

"You must give me a good reason to untie you," he said calmly. "And if you will be so rude to me, if you will not even say hello, then why should I be kind to you?"

He let go of his hair and Prussia swayed a little on his knees but managed to regain his balance. Once there, it was possible for him to slowly raise himself to his feet. He took a few careful steps so that he was no longer standing on the mattress, so that he had a more solid footing. It felt good to be standing again, and to be, if not quite at eye level with Russia, at least not looking up at him quite so much.

Russia looked at him, frowning a little, then gave him a light push that made him stumble backwards until his back was against the wall. He then placed his forearm against his collarbone, pinning him there, and took the knife from his belt. This he waved in front of Prussia's red eyes, smiling as they widened in apprehension, then, with an expression on his face almost of curiosity, as if he simply wanted to see what would happen, he drew the blade across Prussia's bare collarbone, leaving a thin red trail behind it.

Prussia did not move. The blade was sharp enough that this had scarcely hurt at all, but he supposed it had not intended to; judging by Russia's pleased expression, the larger nation had only wanted to see his blood. This was now beginning to run down a little, stark red against his white skin. Russia beamed.

"You look even paler when you bleed," he told Prussia, who simply scowled back at him. "Now, I just want you to say hello to me. If you are polite to me then I will be polite to you. You want to be untied, _da_?"

Prussia looked down; the new cut was just high enough that he could only just barely see it if he pulled his head back as far as he could. He turned back to Russia, meeting his purple eyes with his red ones.

_"Hallo,"_ he said stiffly.

The German _hallo_ and English _hello_ spoken in a German accent were too similar for Russia to tell the two apart, and the act of defiance went unnoticed. He beamed, then ordered Prussia to turn around so that he could cut the bonds around his arms. This order he obeyed immediately, rolling his shoulders gingerly forward and stretching his stiff arms painfully so that he could see the damage where the ropes had cut in. At last, completely untied—a feeling he had not experienced since coming to the Soviet Union, a feeling good enough to negate the pain from the damaged flesh and the other wounds, the stiffness, the cold.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Are you going to thank me for untying you?" Russia inquired, watching Prussia massage the feeling back into his arms and shoulders and reach up to touch the cut across his collarbone. Prussia considered snapping back, but decided it was not worth it to be tied again so soon; this semblance of freedom felt so good.

_"Thank_ you," he said sarcastically, choosing the English instead of the German this time; _danke_ was similar, but perhaps not similar enough.

"Good, _malyutka_!" Russia said cheerfully. "You are learning. Now . . ." He leaned against the wall, as Prussia was doing, though the smaller nation was doing so only to support himself. "You see how good I have been to you, little one. When you were dying, defeated, I offered to take you to my home, to take care of you, and the other Allies were glad to see yo taken away. When you told me that you were not happy in your room upstairs, I gave you a new room. When you were polite to me and did what I asked, then I did what you asked. You have much to be grateful for, _da_?"

He waited for Prussia to say something. When he did not, Russia's face darkened. "And yet," he said, in a measured voice, "you are not grateful. I do so much for you, and yet you do nothing for me except stay in my house while I make sure you are fed and your wounds are cared for. I do this all for you nonetheless. But there is something I want from you now, little GDR."

He looked again at Prussia, who was scarcely paying attention anymore; he had placed a hand—his hands were shaking now, and he could still hardly move his arms—over his new cut and was taken aback at the amount of blood now on his fingertips. He wiped his hand on the already bloodstained wall in distaste. For such a thin cut, it was bleeding a great deal now.

Russia's eyes narrowed in anger and he swung the pipe at the side of Prussia's head, not hard enough to hurt him badly but enough to cause him to give a cry of pain and knock him to the hard floor on his hands and knees, holding the side of his head.

"Fuck you!" he spat from the ground, and Russia hit him again, this time in the back, making him collapse flat against the ground. He struggled to lift himself up and made it to his elbows. Russia placed the pipe against the side of Prussia's face, holding it there until Prussia raised his eyes to meet his. A purple and yellow bruise was blossoming on the side of his pale face.

"I would like you to listen to me," Russia told him. "Is that too much to ask, _malenkiy_ nation? Pay attention to me when I am talking to you."

Prussia did not answer, but this time Russia did not seem to be waiting for a response. He simply continued.

"You know, I defeated you in Berlin as I did your brother. You lost, miserably; no one could have disputed that. And yet I never heard you say that you surrendered. I told you to, over and over again. And in the end, you became unconscious before I heard you say it. But now I want to hear it, _malyutka_. You are one with Russia now, and I want to hear you admit this, to give in and acknowledge that you are mine. It is a little thing, _nyet_? I have given you so much, even though you are nothing but a spoils of war and I could have let you die if I had not been feeling generous. Do you understand?"

He waited for the reply that did not come as Prussia raised himself to his hands and knees again, struggling to stand, then kicked him again in the side, so hard that he was knocked sideways. He rolled onto his back, trying again to stand. Russia's hands closed around his neck.

"Do you understand?" he repeated, lifting him again so that his feet were off the ground as Prussia thrashed and kicked, trying to free himself. He shook him a little, hearing the strangled gasp in response. "Nod your head."

He held him there, waiting unsuccessfully for him to give the ordered sign, until he realized that Prussia had only stopped trying to kick him because he was about to pass out, then dropped him to the ground in disgust, where he collapsed. He waited until the small nation had opened his eyes again, blinking hazily and turning his head from side to side, then dragged his half-conscious body over to one of the walls and chained his hands above his head, high enough that he was pulled into a kneeling position with his back against the wall. Prussia was still barely conscious, his head hanging down against his bare chest, which was now streaked and stained with blood from the cut on his collarbone. Russia, tired of waiting, pulled his head back by his hair and slapped him across the face, causing his eyes to open and his body to jerk away against the chains.

"I said, do you understand?"

Prussia struggled vainly against the chains for a second, feeling them cut into the wrists already torn and bloodied from the ropes, before he spoke, his voice full of spite and hate and, even despite his current condition, strength and confidence as well.

"I never surrendered to you and I never will. I'm not one of your damn Baltics. I will never agree to be part of your fucking Soviet Union."

Russia's fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back and causing it to slam into the wall behind him. He laughed savagely, his mouth bleeding. "_Ich werde niemals aufgeben_!" The language only angered Russia more, but he hardly cared. Shouting in his native language elated him, making his adrenaline spike once again. "_Du wirst zuerst aufgeben!"_

If anything, this caused Russia to hit harder the next time, though after his initial punch he avoided Prussia's head to ensure that he retained consciousness. Prussia gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as the blows knocked him against the wall again and again, refusing to let a cry pass his lips.

At some point, realizing the relative ineffectiveness of his fists, Russia moved to the pipe instead, hitting Prussia's arms and legs and torso and occasionally ripping new wounds in his skin when the faucet at the end of the pipe struck the wrong way. Whenever this happened he was rewarded with a gasp of pain from his chained prisoner, though Prussia fought to keep back any sound that would betray the extent of his suffering to Russia.

By the time he had tired himself out, Prussia was held up only by the taut chains, his hands limp in the shackles, his head hanging down against his bloodstained and bruised torso. When Russia unchained his hands, he immediately slumped to the ground, groaning as he tried vainly to lift himself off the ground. Russia pulled him up into a kneeling position and seized his jaw, forcing his face upward, waiting until Prussia's half-open eyes focused at last and met his.

"I will be back tomorrow," he told him, his voice icy. "And the next day, and the day after that, for as long as it takes. I will break you down, _derzkiy _GDR. There are things that even you will not be able to endure."

He slammed out of the room and, vaguely, Prussia heard the key turn in the lock behind him. He laid his aching head on his bruised, bloody arms, too exhausted to try and make it to the mattress.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Ahh... That was fun to write. I hope I'm not being too mean to Prussia. I love him so much, but man do I enjoy torturing him. Sorry for the delay; this was the first chapter that actually took a while to get down, which is odd because I'd very much been looking forward to writing it._

_What do you think of the religious bit? He was certainly religious as a child, and I've always got the sense that he kind of fell away from it, but I think it's reasonable to assume that he might turn back to it for comfort. And the Hail Mary would be one of the first prayers he'd go to; the Teutonic Knights were a Catholic Order, the Virgin Mary one of their patron saints, and their official name was Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem. I also just think that it's a beautiful prayer, especially in German._

_In other news, I've also gotten a new flash of inspiration and I suddenly have a ton more in my head that I absolutely can't wait to write, so thank you so much to all of you who have continued to stay with me. I've noticed that the follows have gone up, and for that I can't thank you enough. I won't let you down._

_Thank you to __**rookanga**, who reviewed the last chapter__! __Please keep reviewing, constructive criticism is just as good as compliments, and please send me messages if you'd like as well — I absolutely love hearing from the people who read this, all of you are the greatest source of inspiration ever. And favorite and follow if you enjoyed it!_

**German translation**

**Not going to type it all out again, but the prayer he says is the Hail Mary in German.  
****Hallo = **hello (duh)  
**Danke** = thank you (also duh)  
**Ich werde niemals aufgeben **= I'll never surrender/give in  
**Du wirst zuerst aufgeben **= you will give up first

**Russian translation**

**malyutka** = little one  
**malenkiy** = little/puny  
**derzkiy** = insolent/arrogant/brazen


	11. Chapter 11

He awoke still on the floor, unsure of how much time had passed—minutes? Hours? A day?—and sore all over, almost too stiff to move. He slowly, painfully lifted himself into a sitting position against the wall so that he could examine himself: the bruises all over his arms and legs and torso, the tears in his flesh from when the pipe had caught him at the wrong angle. The cut across his collarbone, which had finally stopped bleeding, though the pipe had smeared blood all down and across his chest from the wound before this happened.

He was aware that the blows had not been delivered with Russia's full strength, that they had been carefully aimed to hurt without permanently damaging: not for reasons of mercy, but so that he would be in as much pain as possible but would still recover quickly so that Russia need not wait for him to heal to continue his torments.

He forced himself to his feet, swaying a little; the lightheadedness was partially due to hunger, he realized, and wondered briefly if anyone would bring him food. The possibility was a pleasant one, but he did not intend to hope for too much. He hoped that his own hunger was not also a sign that his people were starving under Russian authority.

He walked around the room once, scarcely aware of what he was doing, then made his way to the mattress again to lie down and cover himself with the blanket; the blood loss had made him feel even colder. Then, angry at himself for the weakness, he rose again unsteadily and lowered himself to the floor to do push-ups, the first chance he had gotten to be work out, alone and untied.

He did not count, did not want to know how much of his former strength he had lost, but he was certain by the time he could do no more that he was much farther from beating his brother at push-ups than he had ever been before. When he tried to push himself off the floor to get to his feet, he realized he could barely even do that much anymore.

_Verdammt. What am I, France? This is pathetic._

With an angry force of will he lifted himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily back to the mattress to lie down, wrapping the thin blanket around himself with hands that had still not stopped shaking. He hated himself for this. If he had lost his physical strength so quickly under abuse and starvation, how quickly would his mental strength follow?

No, don't think stupid things like that, he told himself sternly. That would not happen. Nothing was going to break that down. He was a soldier, he had been in countless wars and battles, he could take this and worse. He remembered scornfully what Russia had said about Lithuania, that he would not last much longer—as if a comparison could even be drawn, he thought with contempt, carefully pushing to the back of his mind the memory of his defeat at Lithuania's hands. That was a long time ago. Lithuania wasn't so strong anymore; he wasn't so strong when Russia took him over.

The door opened and Prussia flinched despite himself, but it was another nation he had not seen before: a much shorter, younger one, with tousled blond hair and an air even more timid than Lithuania. From what Lithuania had told him, he assumed this was Latvia. The young nation was holding a bowl and piece of bread in his hands, which he set down next to the door before quickly disappearing again, locking the door behind him.

Too late, Prussia realized that, had he had his wits about him, he could have overpowered the small Baltic and escaped, but changed his mind; he was not sure he could have made it across the room before Latvia shut the door again, and even if he had gotten out of his cell he could not have escaped the house itself.

He sighed, now wishing that Latvia had stayed for different reasons. Company would have been nice. As soon as he had realized it was not Russia behind the door, he had hoped for Ukraine; Hungary would not have been allowed to stay, probably, but she might have talked to him, and perhaps cleaned some of the new wounds. He was tired of being covered in blood, which had dried all over his skin and left it feeling stiff and unpleasant.

He carefully sat up and rose achingly to his feet—yeah, he realized with some resignation, there was no way he could have made it across the room in time to grab Latvia—to pick up the food. The soup was still slightly warm, though it was quickly cooling off in the frigid air of the cell, and he immediately raised it to his lips and drank it all, cherishing the faint warmth it sent coursing through his veins. The relief was immediate.

The bread was stale, and almost more trouble than it was worth to chew, but he was too hungry to turn down any food no matter what state it was in. He made himself eat it more slowly than he had the soup, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces until it was gone.

Once he had eaten, he immediately felt better. He left the empty bowl beside the door and returned to sit on the mattress; he considered trying to do push-ups again, but decided that burning more calories was probably not the best idea when he was being given so few to begin with.

Was it worth it to try and sleep again? There was not much else to do in the cell since he had exhausted his now-meager ability to work out, and sleep would help him to heal. Anyway, with food in his stomach he felt significantly more comfortable, and hoped he would genuinely be able to sleep soundly now.

First he reached for his boots and sat down on the mattress heavily to pull them on again, lacing them tight and knotting the laces with unsteady fingers; he wanted whatever extra warmth he could get, and if Russia decided to come in while he was trying to sleep and he got the opportunity to kick him, then he wanted to be able to do so with heavy military boots on.

He then climbed stiffly to his feet again to turn off the light, immediately plunging the cell into darkness; it took him some time to make his way back to the mattress in the dark, but as soon as he was able to relax into something at least vaguely soft, he was able to sleep again, exhausted from the ordeal of the previous day.

He had barely drifted off into deep sleep when the door opened again.

_Fuck_. Once again he hadn't been expecting it.

It was dark and his eyes were still trying to focus, but he could tell from the heavy footfalls crossing the room that it was Russia even before he turned the light back on, blinding Prussia momentarily and making him curse. Still holding the _verflucht_ pipe. He had not expected him back so soon, and he was now still only half-awake, struggling to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.

Russia did not voice his usual greeting this time, only stood there in the middle of the room waiting, as if for Prussia to say or do something. Prussia stared back at him, smiling a little through cracked lips despite the fact that his heart was once again racing and all of his limbs felt weak. He doubted he could have risen now if he had wanted to, and _fuck_ his hands needed to stop the damn shaking. He could no longer tell whether the shaking was from weakness, fear, cold, or some combination of two or three.

"Can't stay away from me, huh?" he said, his tone more lighthearted than he felt. "You missed me that much?"

Russia laughed—laughed casually, as if he were merely joking around with a friend. It gave Prussia chills. "I said that I would come back today," he said, "and I keep my promises, _malyutka_, just like I promised that I would break you down and make you into the obedient little Soviet I want."

Prussia smirked. He was trying to ignore the aching pains all over his body; under the stress, he thought some of the wounds were likely beginning to bleed again, but he was not going to break eye contact to look down and check. "You might as well give up now, _Russland_," he shot back, "because you'll be tired of this before I am."

"I doubt that, little one," said Russia; he had ignored the German name for the time being, but his expression had darkened a little, and the malice on his face told Prussia plainly that he had not missed the act of defiance and would be taking it out on him soon. "Something tells me I am enjoying this far more than you. Still, you are eager, so we can begin early today. Yesterday I forgot to put any new marks on your back; I had been wanting to do that."

He crossed the rest of the small space in a few long steps, making Prussia back away against the wall, then slip away as he tried to grab at his arm. Such resistance was, of course, completely futile, and likely to make things worse for him later, but any opportunity to make Russia's life more difficult was not to be missed.

"Fuck no," he snapped, well aware of the fact that he could no longer move as quickly or agilely as he had once been able to. He also had nowhere to go to escape; Russia had closed and locked the door behind him, likely for this very reason. Russia halted and Prussia did too, a few yards away, meeting his eyes with hatred while simultaneously trying to assess the rest of the room in his peripheral vision for anywhere he could get away and delay his capture for a few more precious seconds. And at least he had the use of his hands now, and so could balance better.

He took one more step back, and all of the sudden Russia moved so swiftly that Prussia did not even see it coming, taking one long step and swinging the pipe as he did so. It connected squarely with the side his head and everything immediately went black.

He woke up about half a minute later, momentarily unsure where he was. His hands were chained above his head and he was standing facing the wall—or at least, was held hanging in an upright position by the shackles around his wrists—and he had been jerked back into consciousness by a stinging blow against his back. He gasped, cursing, and struggled to find his footing; the chains were long enough that they were not taut if he stood straight up, and this relieved the pressure on his wrists.

_Another reason it was a good idea to put my boots on_, he thought, pleased that he could more easily set his feet firmly against the ground, though this moment of self-satisfaction was quickly driven from his mind: the next blow hit higher, almost at the back of his neck, and Prussia hissed another German curse under his breath, half-twisting his body as best he could so that he could see Russia, who now held a whip in his hands; he had not seen him bring it in. Russia brought the whip down with all his strength against his now unprotected side, making him twist again in the chains away from the blows. The blows stung badly but the pain was bearable; he guessed that Russia wanted the marks more than the pain in this case, just as he had wanted to see blood the day before.

He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth to force himself to make no further sound, waiting for the whipping to be over. This was not so bad as the shower of blows from the heavy pipe, though it had the disadvantage of being enough to hurt badly but not enough to make him begin to lose consciousness; he was fully aware of every separate blow and could feel each lash long after the whip had struck, knew where each welt had raised on his skin. He hated the position he was in, utterly helpless with his arms stretched up and away from his body, completely unable to turn away or protect himself.

Once Russia had whipped the smaller nation severely and was satisfied with the pattern of welts now showing all over the skin of his back, he laid the whip aside carefully and picked up the pipe again.

_Shit_. Prussia's eyes widened in fear. and instinctively he tried to pull away, to move as far as the restricting chains would allow. In the back of his mind he knew it was ridiculous to struggle so hard to gain only a few more inches of safety, but survival instincts were too strong to prevent himself from doing so. He was not ready for this so soon after the whipping; he had thought Russia was finished for the day when he put aside the whip. His legs were weak and unsteady now, scarcely able to support him.

Russia waited for a few seconds while he struggled, then reached out his hand and pinned him against the wall by the back of his neck, the side of his face pressing hard into the cold stone. From his bound position, Prussia was unable to move, to gain any leverage to push back against him; he spat German curses into the wall, the only form of defiance still left to him.

Russia leaned his pipe against the wall nearby, just far enough away that Prussia could not kick it away, and moved his now free hand to the white-haired nation's shoulder, squeezing a pressure point. A cry escaped Prussia's lips and he jerked violently under Russia's hand, struggling futilely to pull away. Russia waited until he had stilled again, then moved his hand to the pressure point on his elbow, forcing another agonized cry from his prisoner. The metal cuffs dug deep into Prussia's already bleeding wrists as the white-haired nation strained against them, the unyielding chains pulled completely taut. Keeping his hand on Prussia's neck, Russia reached over to retrieve his pipe once again.

"Do not think," he told Prussia, his voice low, "that I did not hear you speak in German to me before. You know I will not tolerate that. But I will give you another chance. I am feeling merciful. Are you ready to give in now, GDR?"

From his position against the wall, Prussia could just turn his head to meet Russia's eyes without having to turn his whole body. He could still manage a twisted smile, although his mouth was bleeding; some of the blows had caused his face to hit the hard stone wall and his lip had been cut badly.

"_Nie_," he gasped. "You don't scare me, _Russland_."

He had been watching the pipe out of the corner of his eye, waiting in expectation for the first blow to fall, so he did not see Russia ball up his fist instead until it had crashed into the side of his face, slamming his head into the wall again and making his vision go black for a second. The pipe crashed against his back again before he was able to regain his vision, probably cracking a rib.

Prussia gritted his teeth, straining against the chains; he was barely able to support himself on his own legs anymore, and whenever he allowed his weight to rest entirely on his shackled hands the cuffs bit into his wrists, deepening wounds already there. They were starting to bleed again; he wished desperately for the bandages that Ukraine had wrapped around them what felt like an eternity ago.

The pipe came down on his shoulder and there was a sickening pop sound; Prussia gave a cry of agony, a sudden intense pain in his shoulder, and forced himself to stand upright again, taking the strain off the shoulder which he was sure was now dislocated. Russia seemed to notice this as well, as he did not hit his shoulder again, but nor did he ease up on the blows on the rest of his back, until the smaller nation was once again slumped against the wall, hanging from his chains barely conscious, face drawn and white with severe agony.

He stopped just before Prussia lost consciousness altogether, perhaps uninterested in wasting his strength on a captive who no longer felt the blows. He then pulled him upright again by the back of his neck, just enough to unlock the shackles around his wrists and free him.

As soon as he had done this, Prussia staggered and nearly collapsed to the floor, legs no longer able to support his weiht, and Russia grabbed his arm to prevent him from falling before lowering him to the ground in a sitting position against the wall. Prussia watched him hazily, too far gone to understand what he was doing, as Russia bent his elbow and lifted his arm, pushing it back, working the shoulder carefully back into the joint. It took a few tries and within seconds Prussia was panting, his red eyes glazed over and face contorted with the severity of the pain.

With a faint noise, the shoulder popped back into place, forcing another strangled cry from Prussia. He raised his other trembling hand and placed it gingerly on his shoulder, then moved the other arm with pained slowness. He then let it fall against his chest again. His face and upper body were soaked in sweat despite the cold of the cell.

Russia rose to his feet, seeming to tower above him, still holding the pipe in his hand. Prussia raised his head to look up at him, his crimson eyes half-open and his breathing shallow and slow. Russia spoke, almost affectionately.

"Do you want to give in now, _malyutka_?"

Unable to speak, Prussia shook his head weakly from side to side. If Russia wanted to beat him further, he doubted he would even feel it anymore, but he still tensed in anticipation of another blow.

Russia did not hit him again. He was holding the pipe in his hand again, tapping it on the floor impatiently, but he did not make another move towards Prussia, lying crumpled and bleeding on the floor.

"Then you are forcing me to hurt you more," he said, his tone one of a father disappointed in a disobedient child. "I will be back later, little one, and perhaps by then you will have thought better of your decision."

If he said anything further, Prussia did not hear him; his head slumped onto his chest and he allowed blessed unconsciousness to overcome him at last.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_The jab at France was kind of a reference to the Franco-Prussian War, where basically all you need to know is I think even the Prussians were surprised at how fast they won._

_I worry that this chapter was too similar to the last one, but I did want to make it clear that he didn't really get any respite before Russia started in on him again. And since I want to write this solely from his point of view, I can't break up what I hope isn't the tedium by going to another character. I actually enjoyed this chapter more than the last one, though maybe it's because he was hurt worse in this one._

_The story has now passed 1,000 views, which is very exciting! Please continue to read and review, I love to see what you think, and favorite or follow if you enjoyed it. Really, though, please do review, I love hearing from you: the feedback is the greatest reward ever!_

**German translations**

**Verdammt** = damn it  
**verfluchte** = damned/cursed  
**Russland** = Russia  
**nie** = never


	12. Chapter 12

He became vaguely aware, after a while, of someone else in the room, and immediately tried to move away from whoever it was only to discover that he had been chained to the wall again while unconscious, handcuffs connected to a ring driven into the wall beside him.

At least, he thought with some relief, he had been moved from the ground, and was now lying on the mattress. Granted, the thin mattress was not much better than the floor, but it was not so cold as the icy stone, and a little easier on his bruised limbs.

Sitting in front of him was Ukraine, with her familiar basin of water and a bottle of vodka and a handful of rags. She had been wiping the blood from his chest and was now carefully placing a bandage over the cut on his collarbone, which was now stinging badly; he supposed she had disinfected it with vodka before he had woken. She had also taken his boots off again, to his intense annoyance.

If he looked down, he could see that his shoulder had developed a large purplish bruise around the joint from being dislocated, though this was scarcely even visible around the countless other bruises dotting his back and torso—some fading to yellow, others reddish-purple.

He wanted to see his back, to see the extent of the damage there; he had not yet so much as touched the welts he could feel there, each individual stripe painful in a slightly different way, and now he could neither see them nor touch them to get a good sense of their extent.

Ukraine smiled tensely at him when he looked up at her, and he tried to return the smile, but the attempt quickly turned into a grimace as he felt his cracked lip split open again. He ran his tongue over the crack and met the metallic taste of blood. Ukraine, seeing this, started to lift the vodka-soaked rag up to his face and he immediately jerked away with a clanking of chains, moving into the corner of the room as far away from her as he could get. His head was clearer now, although his motions were still stiff and awkward, from the bruises and injuries as much as from the shackles.

"Don't put that shit anywhere near my mouth!" he snapped at her, his voice desperately hoarse but stronger than he had dared to hope it might be.

Ukraine withdrew the cloth, looking rather hurt. "Dear," she said appealingly, "your lip is cracked open, I just want to—"

"Yeah, I know," Prussia murmured, letting himself ease back against them mattress again. "Leave it." Given how much the vodka stung on his torso, he could only imagine how badly it would burn in a wound on his lip. "Can't you just wash it with water?"

"I—yes, of course." Ukraine placed the rag down on the floor, reaching for a clean one to soak in water. She paused, however, before lifting it to his face again, then said hesitatingly, "Honey, can I ask you a question?"

Prussia looked at her, confused. He had relaxed a little without the threat of a cracked lip full of vodka, but now tensed again with apprehension at these words. "Yeah," he said, and the word came out sounding faintly like a question.

She paused, as if trying to find the right words for what she wanted to say, but eventually settled on, "My brother wants something from you, dear, yes?"

"_Ja._" Prussia nodded, watching her intently as she cast about for the right way to put whatever she wanted to say. If Ukraine had caught the German, she did not say anything; probably she realized already that Russia had already punished him as much as he was able.

"He is keeping you here . . . treating you . . . like this . . ." She waved a vague hand at the bruises and cuts all over Prussia's body. " . . . because he wants something from you. I know he may seem—harsh—but—" She did not see Prussia roll his eyes at this— "but his actions are not without purpose. What is it that he wants from you?"

Prussia hesitated, then decided it could hardly hurt to tell her, despite his abject scorn at the way she had put it. He hated speaking euphemistically. _Just say it like it is; you're not going to hurt my delicate sensibilities. He's torturing me until I do what he wants_.

"At Berlin," he began slowly, wishing he had something to drink to wet his parched throat, "when he— I never actually told him I surrendered. And it doesn't really matter now that I didn't, but he still wants to hear it; he wants me to give in and accept that I will be part of the Soviet Union. To acknowledge his authority. To stop fighting."

This had been too many words. He was already out of breath from speaking, he realized, hating himself for the weakness. His throat felt like sandpaper and the words had only gotten more hoarse as he spoke.

"What's so bad about that, dear?" Ukraine asked, sounding more at ease now as she reached out and dabbed the blood from his face, wringing the cloth back into the basin and staining the water pink. She moved on to the wounds on his torso where the faucet at the end of the pipe had ripped into his skin, wiping away most of the blood and squeezing the cloth again back into the basin, causing red to swirl through the water and dye it further. "What I mean is . . . why are you letting yourself be hurt like this for something so easy?"

So _easy_?

"What's so _bad _about that?" Prussia said, horrified. He pulled himself up until he was sitting straight, injured pride giving him a quick surge of strength. "You mean what's so bad about giving up, letting him break me?"

Ukraine, frowning a little, put the water-soaked cloth aside, pressed the other cloth to the mouth of the vodka bottle over and turned the bottle over to dampen it. "You said yourself it hardly mattered," she said, her voice reasonable. "If you do give in, I know he'll move you out of this room to somewhere nicer—somewhere warmer—and he won't beat you anymore. He did the same thing for the Baltics—though Estonia and Latvia were more quick to agree than Lithuania . . ." She paused, looking pained for a second. "Dear Toris has always been a bit stubborn. As stubborn as you."

"Don't compare me to him," Prussia said scornfully. He was tired of being compared to Lithuania, as if it was inevitable that he would share the Baltic nation's fate eventually: a shaking, timid, constantly fearful wreck of a nation who had once been great. "I'm stronger than he is. He gave up."

"It was the only sensible thing to do, honey," Ukraine said. She pressed the vodka-soaked cloth against a wound on Prussia's chest, making him gasp. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to hurt you. Does it sting a bit?"

"My people are fighting still," Prussia said through gritted teeth, ignoring her apology. "I can feel them, resisting, protesting. They're trying to get out—they want to go back to West, to get out of your brother's fucking Soviet Union."

She looked hurt again at these words, but at this point Prussia did not particularly care.

"They're not giving up," he said, with measurable pride in his voice now. "My people are staying strong, and I've got to stay strong for them. Don't you tell me to give up. That's bullshit."

Ukraine sighed, the hurt in her expression giving way to something else he was not initially sure he could place. "They won't be able to escape anymore, dear," he said, and the pity he suddenly recognized in her tone unnerved him tremendously. "If you still feel them fighting . . . well, I suppose it is in vain."

Prussia pulled away from beneath her hands as she tried to move to another wound, staring at her. They wouldn't be able to escape anymore? "What?" he whispered.

He saw the regret cross her face instantly, emotions struggling within her: loyalty to her brother, pity for him, fear.

"I . . . I guess I should not tell you if my brother has not told you yet either," she said, and there was an appeal in her voice that he chose to ignore, a plea to ask nothing more. "But dear, please do consider what I've said, all right?"

He did not miss the attempted change in subject.

"It really is difficult for me to see you like this," Ukraine added, almost pleadingly. "I just want you to think about what you are doing."

"_Nein_, fuck that!" Prussia struggled against the chains as she backed away from him nervously, straining to get closer to her, desperate for any information about his people. "What do you mean, they can't escape anymore?"

Ukraine quickly rose to her feet, her work still incomplete, picking up the basin of sickly-pink water in one hand and the rags and bottle of vodka in the other. "I'd better go, dear," she said anxiously.

_No. Not yet_. He did not want to be alone, even if she was going to say nothing more to him; he was afraid of solitude with his thoughts, afraid the horror of his situation would finally overwhelm him with desperation.

"Kat, I'm sorry, I won't ask again!" he called after her, and she paused at the door, sympathy fighting against her anxiety. "Don't go." He pulled himself up and turned on his knees so that he could show her his back, patterned heavily with welts and cuts and bruises. "_Bitte, lass mich nicht allein_ . . . You didn't tend to these at all."

He saw her pale a little, whether it was at hearing the German or at the extent of the damage he could not tell, but regardless, the ploy worked; she immediately hurried back across the room to sit down beside him on the mattress and dip the rag first into the water to begin working on the new injuries. Just the water was enough to make him grimace with the renewed pain, and he was not prepared at all for her to try and disinfect them with vodka, but it would be worth it to have a few more minutes of company, such as it was.

Unfortunately, she now seemed to be avoiding speaking again as she quickly washed all of the wounds, then returned to the vodka and pressed the soaked rah none too gently into a wound. Prussia's back arched when the alcohol touched the torn flesh, and his hands closed tightly around the ring in the wall to support himself to keep from falling; he had expected it to hurt, but not so much.

Ukraine, rather than trying for gentleness, simply worked as fast as she could and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder when she had finished disinfecting all of them and placed bandages over the worst of the injuries. He then turned himself awkwardly around once again to allow her to check on the rest of the wounds and make sure those that needed it were also bandaged.

Then the doorknob turned—Ukraine had not locked it behind her, since Prussia was chained and had no way of escaping—and suddenly Russia stood in the doorway again.

Ukraine's back was turned to the doorway and she neither saw him nor heard the sound of the door. Prussia froze in sudden fear that he could no longer deny, afraid to try and back away; he was not sure he could stand another session so soon.

Russia did not enter the room any further; simply stood, observing the scene silently, as Ukraine finished her work. Prussia stared back at him in intense hatred over Ukraine's shoulder.

Ukraine, finally satisfying herself as to the quality of her work, patted Prussia's shoulder again kindly and turned to gather up her possessions. She caught sight of her brother standing in the doorway, jumped a little, and quickly rose to leave the room, abandoning both the bottle of vodka and the basin of water behind her and leaving Prussia alone with Russia once more.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Another shortish chapter; I think they're going to be a little shorter now than they have been, just because I like to feed you the action little by little but also get it to you as soon as possible. I hope you enjoyed it! Please, please review if you read it, and favorite and follow it if you liked it—there's lots more to come!_

_Thank you so much to **rookanga** for reviewing the last chapter! Please keep reviewing: seeing a new comment is so, so exciting for me, and the feedback is what makes it worth it!_

_Also a very, very big thank you to **Wolken**, who's helping me with the German translations! I only know basic vocabulary and grammar and I haven't been around native German speakers, so the help is invaluable._

**German translations  
****Ja** = yes  
**Nein **= no  
**Bitte** = please  
**lass mich nicht allein** = don't leave me alone


	13. Chapter 13

He waited, tense, clenching his restrained hands into fists to keep them steady. Russia had stepped aside to allow his sister to exit the room, but once she had left he had not moved from the doorway. He simply stood watching Prussia, who had already made the decision not to give him the satisfaction of seeing him struggle fruitlessly and now stared back, crimson eyes narrowed with the utmost loathing.

"Your wrists look in terrible shape," Russia told him, in a voice that almost sounded kind. "They're bleeding again, aren't they, _bednyaga_? You should have them bandaged again."

Prussia bit his tongue so hard that his teeth drew blood to keep back the insults and curses running through his head, dropping his gaze from Russia's to the bloodstained floor. He could not look at his tormentor's face without wanting to swear at him, and he was fully aware of the immediate repercussions such an action would have.

Take deep breaths and calm down, _D__ummkopf_, he ordered himself sternly, trying to control the trembling in his hands. You can be brave without doing anything stupid.

He was not convincing himself of anything. Prussia was not in the habit of listening to the reasonable side of his brain; he was much more accustomed to pay attention to the warlike side which was now screaming at him to stop being a scared pussy and tell the Russian exactly what he thought of him.

_Gott, gib mir Kraft_.

He continued to stare fixedly at the ground, refusing to look up again even when he heard the heavy footfalls cross the room again and knew that Russia was standing in front of him. Russia seemed to take his lowered eyes as a sign of submission, as his voice was pleased when he spoke again. The satisfaction in his tone grated against Prussia's ears; experience had taught him that the Russian's happiness generally meant impending pain for him, which made the Soviet's next words even more surprising than they would have been ordinarily.

"Would you like me to take the shackles off, GDR? I only put them there for Ekaterina's good, you know, to make her work easier."

Prussia looked up at this, taken aback, uncertain of the reason for the sudden generosity. The offer of leniency made him feel that he had done something wrong; that perhaps Russia thought he was beginning to break down and intended to reward him for that. Still, if it meant he could be unchained, he was not complaining; it was hardly giving in to accept a favor.

He pushed his misgivings aside and nodded faintly, saw the wide smile in return. Russia leaned over him to unlock the shackles and Prussia flinched away, unsettled by his closeness, but the larger nation moved away again once he had released him, sitting on the floor beside the mattress and simply observing his prisoner with an odd fascination.

Prussia could not bring himself to look up, to meet his captor's probing purple eyes; when he did they seemed to bore into his own. He looked down instead and rubbed his wrists. They were in bad shape where the cold iron shackles had bit into them; he let go of his wrists and found his fingers bloody.

Russia was looking at the injuries, and he could not tell whether his expression held sympathy or merely morbid interest. He decided that he did not particularly care; he just wanted him to make his next move, because his proximity was unnerving. He risked a glance at him to check if he had brought his pipe.

For once, he had not. He appeared to be entirely unarmed, but this was not enough of a reason for Prussia to let his guard down; he was well aware of the effectiveness of his fists as weapons if need be.

Russia, who had apparently finished his inspection of the white-haired nation, rose to his feet, and Prussia flinched away without meaning to, unsure of his intentions. But Russia did not make another move towards him. He simply spent a few more seconds looking down at Prussia, smiling faintly, and then unexpectedly turned and walked out of the cell, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

Prussia, now trying to breathe deeply and evenly to calm himself down—he had been more afraid than he would ever admit to himself that Russia would begin beating him again so soon—watched the door, still massaging the feeling back into his hands and wrists, and waited to hear the hated sound of the key in the lock.

It did not come.

He waited for a few more seconds, caught off guard, suddenly fearing that Russia was just standing outside the door for some reason as if hoping he would take advantage of the situation. He knew he could not just have missed the sound; the grating _click _of the heavy bolt being pushed into the wall was unmistakable and loud enough that he had noticed it before without listening for it.

Confused, Prussia rose unsteadily to his feet, then stopped, wondering if he was somehow walking into a trap. If Russia was, indeed, standing outside the door, maybe he was just looking for a new excuse to punish his prisoner, a justification for tormenting him. This thought held him frozen uncertainly for almost half a minute, his mind in turmoil.

Then his curiosity overwhelmed him; he made his way silently across the floor and placed a hand on the doorknob lightly, almost timidly, as if expecting that the contact would hurt him in some way, and testing it to see if he had been correct. It turned, silently, and he returned it to its original position with the utmost care, and pressed his ear against the door to see if he could hear breathing on the other side.

It was silent, though this was nothing like an assurance that Russia was really gone. If he was planning to ambush him, then he would be keeping quiet purposefully.

With a knot in his stomach, genuine dread at what he might find on the other side, he pushed the door forward a few inches and stopped again, waiting for any response from the other side. None came. He left the door a little ajar and looked out through the small opening, seeing nothing but the empty corridor outside the cell.

Experimentally, he pushed a little more and the door gave a loud creak that made him freeze. For about ten seconds he remained perfectly still, fearful, waiting to hear the heavy footsteps of the Russian returning to investigate the sound. The silence continued to stretch out, and with a silent sigh of relief he understood that he had gone unnoticed: that it was _not_ a trap. It was just an oversight on Russia's part.

Relief washed over him like a wave, followed immediately by excitement. He laughed with genuine happiness, the first time in he could not remember how long. _Dumme Russische Bastard! _He had left the door unlocked and his prisoner unchained and now there was nothing standing between him and the exit, and freedom, blessed_ freedom!_

With a bounce in his step that he had not had for years, Prussia returned to sit on the mattress and tug his combat boots on, then pulled the blanket from the bed to wrap around his shoulders. If he was going outside, and he fully intended to do so, he was going to do so with as much protection against the brutal Russian elements as he could find. But he had to be quick if he had any hope of actually escaping the house. Any minute now Russia might realize his mistake and come back to remedy it.

He returned to the door, which he had left slightly open. Now that he was wearing boots it took a little more effort to remain perfectly silent, but he managed it, and pushed the door open with agonizing slowness to prevent any further sound, only as far as he needed to slip out through the gap—and then he was standing outside the cell, his hands untied, _free, free, free_.

He explored the basement as quietly as he could, hoping to find a door so that he would not have to try and sneak through the main floor. The first he found was locked tight, but another few minutes of silent searching and he had discovered a second, this one open, and pushed it open with less caution than he had the door of his cell.

A blast of icy air hit him, making him gasp; he had slowly grown accustomed to the cold of the basement, which he was aware would once have probably killed him, but even that was nothing compared to the pure, intense, bone-chilling cold of the outside. He pulled the blanket closer around his bare shoulders, feeling all of the warmth leaving his body, desperately grateful for the wool socks beneath his heavy boots. At the very least, his feet would stay protected.

The cold bothered him for only seconds and then he was too overjoyed to even notice the discomfort. He was out of the house, and no longer had to be worried about making a noise, and so he ran. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, sending thrills of delight through him. He laughed again into the icy, barren landscape, the gleeful sound echoing through the deadened trees around him, a triumphant sound.

The winter air was burning in his lungs and he was fully aware that many of his wounds were bleeding again with the exertion and he had neither the speed nor the endurance he had once trained into himself, but it hardly mattered; he ran, exhilarating in the freedom and the wide-open space after so long in a cramped room.

It was going to be okay; West was going to be there, he would be so surprised and so glad to see him, he would be able to have German beer again and see the dogs and Gilbird. He could ask Ludwig what had been in all of the letters he had not been able to read; tell him at last, in the comfort and safety of his own home, what had happened.

After so long, he was going home. He could scarcely suppress a cry of delight at the thought.

Before long, his injuries forced him to slow down to a brisk walk. The snow was crunching underfoot, a sound that would ordinarily have been pleasant but which was now just a grim reminder of his location. However, this encouraged him to walk faster.

Something was ahead of him, something he did not recognize. He sped up his pace a little, a faint note of concern adulterating his otherwise boisterous mood, until he could better make out what it was. Some structure, grayish and solid and ugly, just like everything else the Soviets made, he thought with some bitterness. But why was it there? A new building, so close to Russia's house?

No—it was not a building, he realized. It was a wall.

He slowed down, staring into the distance first to his left and then its right, unable to make out a terminal point at either end. It was a wall, about twelve feet high, protected at the top by loops of cruel-looking barbed wire. He could see guard towers every now and then along the tremendous length.

And all at once he understood the implications, the reason that the wall had been constructed.

It was a wall separating him from West.

This was why Russia had been lax in locking the door behind him; why he had been so willing to unlock his chains and give him the pretense of more freedom. Because he was simply extending his leash, giving him the illusion of freedom so that it would only be more agonizing, more utterly unbearable, when he jerked the leash back again.

There had been a barrier before, this he had been told by Lithuania long before—a wire fence, nothing more than a stupid symbol erected to signify the separation. He had given it no thought. It would have been easily climbed over for escape; it would have been easily torn down to destroy the divide altogether.

This, though, this was intended to last, a barrier not only for show but for function as well, a wall around the prison that had once been East Germany. A structure intended to make the divide between him and his brother permanent, to ensure that he would _never_ escape, _never_ see West again. An investment made, he was sure, at huge cost to Russia—made in the confidence that it need never fall.

The huge wall and the rest of the world were swimming in front of Prussia's eyes now. He felt as though all of his limbs had been turned to water and his knees almost buckled; he placed a shaking hand on the wall to steady himself, a hand which was sore and numb from the savage cold. More than just a wall, it seemed to him a malicious entity, a sentinel to carry out Russia's intentions.

Tears were burning at the back of his eyes, running hot and painful down his cold cheeks, and he slammed the palm of his hand despairingly into the wall, sending an arrow of pain through his arm, overwhelmed with the horror of it all. The gunmen at the top of the watchtowers, to kill his people if they tried to flee. The coils of razor wire at the top of the twelve-foot wall, making it unclimbable.

This fucking cement monster cutting him off from West, isolating his people within the Soviet Union, standing in its looming ugliness as a prison and a constant reminder of their captivity.

He slammed the palm of his hand viciously against the horrible construction, sending an arrow of pain shooting up his arm. He scarcely noticed. He could not even identify the emotion overwhelming him now: was it fear? Grief? Or just pure, unadulterated rage, that anyone would dare do such a thing to his precious citizens, presume to try and cage the proud East German people?

He could hear Ukraine's words echoing in his head again, understood all at once the pity in her eyes when he spoke proudly of his people continuing to fight.

_"They won't be able to escape anymore, dear. If you still feel them fighting . . . well, I suppose it is in vain."_

If he looked down the wall, stretching seemingly to infinity in both directions, he could see bloodstains the snow, the blood of his people whom he loved.

The ultimate punishment for those who, like himself, just wanted to escape this hellish Russian prison.

_Nein. Nein. Nein._

He drew a long, shaking breath, and then the horror of the situation overwhelmed him completely, and all at once he could no longer stand.

As he fell to his knees hopelessly in the snow, the tears now running unchecked down his pale face, he heard Russia's soft laughter behind him.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Oh my goodness. This was a really emotional chapter to write. __But Prussia, you idiot, didn't you realize it was too easy? No alarm bells or anything?_

_It's about time the Berlin Wall made an appearance; the story's named after it and it still took thirteen chapters._

_Maybe it's a bit stupid to have the Berlin Wall close enough to the house that he can walk to it like that, but at one point Russia does refer to the Soviet Union as a big house, and so if you look at it that way then Germany _would_ be on the boundary, and the wall at the edge of the yard? Maybe?_

_Many thanks to **rookanga** and **Wolken** for reviewing the last chapter - it really means a lot! And a special thank you to Wolken for helping me fix and improve German translations!_

_Please, please review if you read it, and favorite and follow if you liked it!_

**Russian translation  
bednyaga** = poor thing

**German translation  
Dummkopf **= idiot**  
Gott, gib mir Kraft** = God, give me strength  
**Dumme Russische Bastard** = stupid Russian bastard  
**Nein **= no


	14. Chapter 14

"You must think me such a fool, little one," Russia said, his voice soft and affectionate. "You really thought I would just let my prize escape so easily?"

Prussia, numb from grief, said nothing. He did not resist when Russia grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, causing the blanket to fall from his shoulders into the snow, and tied his hands tightly behind his back. Russia picked the blanket up in one hand, using the other to pull Prussia behind him as he started to move back to the house, a cheerful spring in his step.

Prussia followed without struggling. At one point, barely aware of where he was stepping, he stumbled on uneven ground and fell into the snow, unable to catch himself with his bound hands. When Russia pulled him up again, his bare torso was wet with melted snow and he was even colder than he had been before, any lingering trace of warmth sucked entirely from his body. He hardly noticed it anymore; his skin was so numb that he no longer even felt the pain of the frigid air.

He found himself wishing dully that he were only a human; this cold would have already killed him if he were. He seemed to feel his very bones turning to ice within him, his blood sluggish and half-frozen in his veins. At the very least, he thought faintly, he would soon lose consciousness.

But no, Russia would not let that happen; when he turned and saw the small nation's lips turning blue, he immediately wrapped the blanket around his now-bony shoulders again. When even this caused Prussia to fall again, Russia sighed and bent down to lift Prussia into his arms to carry him.

Prussia, pride seriously injured at this, and horrified at what he recognized as a necessity—he doubted he could walk on his own anymore, he could feel his consciousness slipping away even as he tried—struggled weakly against the strong arms around him; Russia ignored the pathetic attempts and continued walking.

At the very least, Prussia had to admit, it was warmer. He resisted the urge to turn his face out of the bitter wind into Russia's scarf, which was soft against his bruised, numb cheek. Instead he closed his eyes; the frigid air was stinging them, and he did not want to see the hated house come back into his sight, did not want to see the wall and his last hope at freedom slipping away.

Russia broke the silence again before they had gotten back to the house, his voice almost soothing.

"It is for the best, after all, _malyutka_."

Prussia, uninterested in whatever sick justification he had, said nothing, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as if by doing so he could close his ears to the words as well. It was bad enough to be so close to his despised captor without having to listen to him talk too.

Russia continued, "Your people kept trying to escape. If they keep on getting away, they will weaken you, no?" He halted his footsteps, looking down at Prussia, who had opened his eyes again upon feeling him stop walking. His words were dripping with what almost sounded like sincere concern when he spoke again. "My little one, have you not felt them leaving?"

Prussia had been intending to ignore the large nation as best he could, but the words unexpectedly hit home. He had assumed that his drastically weakened state was simply due to his new conditions, to the starvation and the beatings, but it was true that ordinarily he would have recovered more quickly.

Russia, watching his expression changing, smiled a little. "You see? I am doing the best thing for you."

He began walking, saying nothing more. The tactic worked; Prussia could think of nothing but his words, fearful that they might be true. The thought made him shudder. What if the oppression, the horrible enclosure that was the Berlin Wall, was the only thing that might keep his nation alive to ever see reunification with West? What if Russia was doing the best thing—keeping the nation from collapsing altogether?

Hopelessness overcame him, the horror of dependency. If Russia's words were true, he was only being kept alive by his precious people's suffering, his very existence depending on their captivity. Was he really weakening because they were escaping?

And suddenly he remembered the bloodstains in the snow in front of the wall, and relief washed through him, followed instantly by fury.

He jerked his body away from Russia's with all his depleted strength, and Russia, taken by surprise, abruptly dropped him; he fell harder than expected, cursing, hitting ice instead of snow. He rose unsteadily to his feet again, adrenaline and anger giving him a strength he had not possessed before, backing away slowly from Russia, whose expression looked genuinely confused.

After several attempts, he finally found his voice, hoarse and grating in the icy air but as strong as he could make it.

"I'm not—weakening—because they're escaping, you fucking—bastard," he hissed at him, the words punctuated at awkward intervals by ragged breaths; the air out here seemed not to fill his lungs properly. "I'm weakening because—you're killing them—when they—try!"

Russia raised both hands, as if in protest, opening his mouth to say something, but Prussia cut him off, bound hands clenched into fists, raised voice shaking with anger.

"I saw the blood in the snow—I saw the guards—I know what you've done! You built the wall—to trap them—to try and break them down—because you think—they'll stop fighting—don't you—if you try to make the divide permanent?"

Russia frowned. "_Malyutka_, you are being unreasonable—"

"No, shut up!" Anger was making him say things Russia would make him regret later, he was sure of it, but he was too furious to force himself to be silent. He was almost screaming now, lightheaded because he could not draw a proper breath. "Let me tell you something, Arschloch—they haven't stopped—I can feel them—fighting—harder every day—and if they go back to West—if they escape—that'll just strengthen him."

If he looked over Russia's shoulder he could still see the wall in the distance, cutting the landscape like an ugly scar across Germany. He met Russia's eyes again, hurling the words at him like weapons.

_"Fahr zur Hölle_. You're not going to break them down—anymore than you'll ever—break me."

The pipe was in Russia's hand again; Prussia could not have said whether he had seen him carrying it before. Russia's eyes narrowed and he swung the pipe at him, knocking him to his knees. Prussia struggled violently against him as he hauled him, thrashing, to his feet, and picked him up again, this time to restrain rather than help him. He sped up his footsteps as they approached the house, entering the door through which Prussia had left, then put Prussia down so that he could lock it again behind him.

Prussia tried to move away from him again and got to his knees before the pipe landed on his back again, sending him to the floor hard. His head slammed against the cold stone, and he was too dazed to try and move again for a second.

Russia took advantage of this and struck at him with the pipe again: only a few times, but with enough strength behind the blows that he was spitting blood by the time he was finished. He then pulled the smaller nation to his feet again and dragged him back to his cell, where he threw him to the ground. His face was furious, and against his will Prussia felt fear beginning to replace his anger; Russia had gotten himself under control again and was smiling now, purple eyes narrowed menacingly, as if merely trying to decide his next move.

Prussia had landed on his back, and now he tried to push himself away from Russia on the ground, but Russia immediately reached for him, grabbing him by his ankle and dragging him back. He then yanked him to his feet again, and hauled him to the wall. He pulled his bound hands up behind him and wrapped a chain around them from a ring on the wall, forcing him to bend forward, unable to straighten up.

"You are lucky I am so lenient with you," Russia told him calmly, as he struggled to catch his breath. His head had been pushed down by the position he was bound in, but Russia now buried a gloved hand in his matted, bloody hair—which had not been cut since Prussia's arrival in the Soviet Union, and so was now long enough to give him a good handhold—and used it to drag his head back up so that he was compelled to face him. "You are very fortunate indeed. Think of all you have done to me. You tried to escape, you defied me, you spoke German to me against my express wishes, and even so I am bringing you back to my home, continuing to take care of you."

His uncomfortable position was putting strain on both his legs and arms, and Prussia was already exhausted and weakened; he fought to keep his knees from buckling, aware that falling would be agonizing to his shoulders, one of which was still heavily bruised and painful from its dislocation. A hundred different insults and curses had risen to his mind, but he bit them back; he had been beaten enough for one day and he suspected Russia was about to leave and desperately hoped to be untied before he did. He was well aware the Soviet was not above leaving him restrained like this all night, uncomfortable and sore and unable to relax.

Russia released his hair—Prussia let his head slump back against his bruised chest again, no point wasting energy in trying to keep it up—and moved to the door.

_Verdammt_, Prussia thought, frustrated. Not releasing him. He was aware, in the back of his mind, that Russia would happily oblige if he begged to be untied, but that was not happening. At least Russia was leaving.

Russia cast his eyes around the cell and they fell on the basin of water, now stained pink from blood, which Ukraine had left in the corner upon her hasty departure; he picked it up and threw the now near-freezing water over Prussia, making him gasp in the shock of the sudden cold.

"I doubt that will kill you," he told the smaller nation, who was shaking uncontrollably against the cold, lips turning blue, eyes wide with shock. He was panting, almost hyperventilating, unable to catch his breath again, and fighting desperately to keep his footing on the wet ground—a losing battle.

"It is warmer here than it is outside; I doubt it will do lasting damage. But just in case I will come in to check on you later. I want my precious GDR alive."

He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, and this time Prussia heard the unmistakable click of the key in the lock behind him.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_So, headcanon here: the nations are able to heal much faster and live through significantly more than a human being, which is why Prussia isn't dead yet. If he was human, he probably would have died of hypothermia._

_Thank you again to **Wolken** for continuing to help with the German translations, and thank you so much also to **Budgiebear23**, who absolutely made my day by sending me a really sweet and wonderful PM! All of you guys can message me anytime, I'd love to hear from you._

_Please review if you read it! You know how happy reviews make me! And favorite or follow if you liked it!_

**Russian translation:**

**malyutka** = little one  
**da** = yes

**German translation:  
****Arschloch **= asshole  
**Fahr zur Hölle** = go to hell


	15. Chapter 15

As soon as the door had closed behind Russia, Prussia slumped down against the wall. The immediate pain in his arms and shoulders was unavoidable; his legs simply would not support him anymore. His breathing was unsteady, drawn in quick shallow breaths, and his whole body was shaking violently.

The worst part of it was that, as a nation, he _would_ live through this. He would live through this dull, all-encompassing torture, all his nerves screaming for warmth, his whole body shivering so violently it was almost a seizure, his other senses slowly shutting down as his body tried to divert everything it had to keep itself warm. Already he could barely see.

The growing numbness in his hands was almost a blessing; at least the pain of the cold was fading with the stiff unfeelingness.

He remembered Italy once trying to tell him about an Italian epic poem called the _Inferno_, about a journey into hell. Hell had been divided into circles, each level for worse sinners, with more and more terrible punishments. And at the deepest circle of hell there was not the stereotypical lake of fire. No: it was ice. Eternal ice.

He wondered if Dante had ever experienced something like what he was going through now; if he'd had a good reason for naming cold the ultimate hell.

Thoughts of hell aside, the memory of Italy could not help but make Prussia smile. He had been fond of Feliciano; the little Italian had been like another little brother to him. His hero-worship of both brothers had reminded Prussia of a much younger Ludwig.

That made the tears come again, hot against his ice-cold cheeks. Ludwig. Feliciano. He doubted now that he would ever see them again; likely he never would, if Russia and his wall had anything to say about it.

The click of the lock in the door made Prussia look up, instantly broken out of his reverie, and struggle to find his footing again on the floor slick with water. Whoever it was, he did not intend to face them while appearing weak.

He had not heard anyone's steps, which probably meant that it was not Russia coming.

The door was pushed open with a creak, and then a platinum-blonde head poked into the cell, a face he recognized only vaguely as Belarus's. She glanced around the room several times and her sharp features furrowed into a frown. She turned to Prussia, glaring.

"Where's Brother?" she demanded.

Prussia raised his head weakly. His white hair was still dripping blood and water onto the floor, and some of the soaked strands had stuck to the side of his face. Belarus took one or two cautious steps towards him and brandished the kitchen knife she held in her hand. That stupid knife. It reminded him far too much of Russia's omnipresent pipe.

"I said _where's Brother_?"

Prussia shook his head from side to side, making another shower of bloody water droplets fall to the floor. "I d-don't know," he muttered, his teeth chattering so hard he could barely get the words out. "N-n-not here."

This was the sister Russia was scared of, he remembered suddenly; the one that he had obviously done his best to avoid. He raised his head again, trying to make his numb lips form a smile. The blonde nation's scowl only deepened.

"You're N-Natalia?"

She nodded, expression changing from angry to quizzical at the question. Prussia searched for more words. Keep her here; anything was better than Russia.

"Why d-do you w-want to find your b-b-brother?"

He did not particularly want to even think about Russia, let alone talk about him, but he had nothing better at the moment. He felt like the cold had crept into his brain, his mind as slow and clumsy as the rest of his body.

The topic seemed to be a good one, though. She beamed at this, the first real smile he had seen on her face. "Big Brother needs to spend more time with me," she said. "We're in love."

"In love," Prussia repeated dubiously, remembering again the brief look of alarm on Russia's face as he had passed his sister in the kitchen however many days ago. The memory was entertaining.

She nodded vehemently, glowering at the look of skepticism he had not been able to keep off his face. "He spends too much time with _you_," she informed him harshly, shaking the knife at him like an accusing finger. "And not enough time with me."

Prussia saw his opportunity and took it.

"He'll be coming back here soon," he said, forcing a false note of enthusiasm into his shaking voice. "He t-told me so . . . W-wait here and you'll f-f-find h-him eventually."

Her face brightened. "Good idea," she said eagerly. "I'll stay here. You can keep me company, GDR."

Prussia nodded faintly. "Yeah. D-d-don't call me that."

"What?"

"GDR. Don't . . . don't c-call me that. J-j-just G-Gilbert, please."

It was so hard just to get the words out. Everything was so cold. His tongue was practically numb in his mouth and his body was trembling all over in a failing attempt to get his cooled blood moving again and warm him up.

She took another few tentative steps toward him, then saw the water on the floor and wrinkled her pointed nose with distaste. "I don't want to stand here. It's wet." She looked up, frowning with surprise, as if she had only just taken a good look at him. "You're wet too. You look horrible. What's wrong with you?"

"M-maybe you could untie me," Prussia suggested through chattering teeth. "W-w-we could s-sit on the mattress and wait m-more comfortably."

She nodded and took another few steps gingerly to him, then reached up with her knife behind him to saw through the ropes binding his hands together. Prussia stumbled as soon as he was freed and fell hard to his hands and knees, splashing into the water on the floor; Belarus leapt back with a small squeak of distress and pulled her skirts back to keep them from getting wet.

She did not offer to help him, just watched as he rose to his feet and made his way slowly over to the mattress. Thankfully, Russia had thrown the blanket there. He wrapped it around his shaking shoulders tightly, pulling his legs up into his chest to try and warm himself. Belarus seated herself delicately beside him.

"Talk to me," she said.

Prussia had cupped both of his hands in front of his mouth to warm both his hands and his lips and steady his breathing. His teeth were still chattering, but not quite so badly.

"_Talk_ to me," Belarus repeated petulantly, brandishing the knife. "You said you would."

Prussia dropped his hands, using them to pull the blanket even tighter around his bare shoulders. "About what?"

"About Brother."

This was not a good topic of conversation. Prussia guessed that one wrong word and she would definitely leave, and he did not want to be left alone. And yet he could honestly not think of anything good to say about the Soviet nation.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye; she was not offering an alternative, just waiting for him to say something.

"I knew him when we were both kids," he began carefully. He could finally talk normally, he realized with some relief; he was beginning to warm up at last. "I was the Teutonic Knights then."

Belarus beamed. Prussia could not remember if he had ever seen her; she had been young then, younger even than Russia, and so maybe even if she had been there she would not remember that Prussia had often bullied Russia as a child.

He hoped she would say something else, spare him having to come up with other vaguely positive-sounding things about Russia, but she did not. She was simply waiting, listening to him with rapt attention.

"Um . . . We fought a couple times, I guess. I fought with a lot of people, though. He beat me a couple times."

"Like he beat you this time," Belarus said proudly. "It's why you're living with us, I know. Because he beat you in the big war, and you lost. It's why _my_ brother got to take you away from _your_ brother."

Prussia gritted his teeth_. Better her than Russia_, he reminded himself forcibly, then made himself smile. "Yeah. That's why."

"Brother is very strong."

Prussia looked down at his hands to try and think of something, anything, else. He flexed his fingers gingerly, wincing. The blood was at last beginning to return to them and the pain was almost unbearable.

"Why don't you tell me something about him?"

She smiled tensely, opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Something in her face seemed to tighten. Prussia immediately regretted his question, although he had no idea what had caused her to react this way.

All of the sudden she pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and hid her face against her knees. Prussia stared at her, then realized suddenly that her shoulders were shaking with sobs.

Prussia put an arm around her shoulders and gave her an awkward hug. She pressed her face into the blanket on his shoulder and cried.

"Sometimes—" she gasped through choking sobs, "sometimes I think—he doesn't love me at all—that I'm just in love with him, and he hates me—or he's scared of me—and he doesn't want to be around me—"

Prussia could think of nothing to say to comfort her. It was pretty clear to him that all of these things were true.

"I think he's avoiding me," Belarus sniffed. "I think that's why I couldn't find him today . . . Because he didn't want me to find him. Sometimes I think he runs away when he sees me coming, or he locks himself into a room . . ." She drew a shuddering breath, then broke out into a wave of fresh sobs, throwing both her arms around Prussia now. "I think he hates me, even though I love him."

Prussia drew a deep breath and patted Belarus's shoulder. He was no good at dealing with other people's emotions, and he was very uncomfortable with the fact that her hug meant that the kitchen knife was now dangerously close to his ear.

"I'm sure he likes you," he lied uneasily. "I mean . . . well, you're very pretty. And you're his sister. Of course he loves you."

Belarus gave a loud sniffle and wiped her eyes on the back of the hand holding the knife. She gave Prussia a shaky smile.

"Do you really think?"

Prussia nodded, sincerely this time. "Trust me. You can't just not love a sibling."

She withdrew her hand from her eyes, looked at the knife for a second, then started sobbing again and stabbed the knife into the mattress between the two of them, narrowly missing Prussia's hand. He quickly withdrew it, placing it comforting around her shoulders again.

"Then why won't he _marry_ me?" Belarus cried. "It's not because he doesn't know I want to get married—I ask him to every day—and he still won't—and I just don't understand it."

Her face was hidden in his shoulder, and so she did not see Russia appear, holding the pipe in one hand, standing in the door that she had left open behind her.

Russia's gaze met Prussia's briefly and his face darkened with anger as he realized that Prussia was not chained where he had left him; then his eyes dropped to his sister at Prussia's side, and widened in sudden fear.

To Prussia's vast relief, he spun on his heel and slipped away quietly, without so much as ensuring that the cell door was closed behind him.

Prussia had scarcely noticed the open door before, and now realized now that once again he was unbound behind an unlocked door, but he pushed the thought away.

It would do no good to try and escape again; he could probably overpower Belarus and take her knife, but even if he did, there would be no getting past the wall, and Russia would likely beat him within an inch of his life if he did that again. It would not be worth it for another failed attempt.

He looked back down at the crying girl at his side and bit his lip. He could not leave Belarus like this, anyway. It would simply be unchivalrous.

"Do you want to stay for a while more?" he offered hopefully.

She shook her head tremulously. "I suppose not. Kat will want me to help with dinner and maybe now Brother is upstairs."

Prussia groaned inwardly. "Are you sure?" he said aloud. "He did say that he was going to come back here."

Belarus shook her head again, then rose from the mattress, dusting off her dress with the hand not holding the knife. "It's far too cold and too wet down here," she said, "and the mattress is uncomfortable. I don't know why you don't ask Brother for something different."

Prussia said nothing. He could think of no words that might keep her in the cell for any longer. At least, he thought, trying to look on the bright side, her brief stay with him meant that he was already untied, which was far more than he would have dared to hope for an hour ago.

He looked up and found to his surprise that she was smiling at him.

"Thank you for the hug," she said warmly. "I'll try to come back sometime. Maybe by then my brother will have agreed to marry me."

She turned and flounced out of the room without another word.

Prussia watched her go with a sinking feeling. He had never disliked being alone before, but he now felt as though he was being left without allies, completely defenseless.

He could only pray that Russia was not still downstairs, waiting, simply hiding somewhere in the shadows and watching until Belarus had gone.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_I don't really love this chapter—I feel like it's not written as well as some of the others and I think it should have been longer, but I'm leaving tomorrow for a week and didn't want to abandon you for a whole week without giving you a new update first!_

_The rest of the story is outlined now so it just needs to be written. I promise there's plenty more still to come. Thanks for continuing to stick with me through this story!_

_Tell me what you think of Belarus? I think she's definitely kind of crazy, but I also can't help but think that she's very lonely. It's why she was so eager to stay with Prussia when he suggested it; somehow I don't think she has a lot of people actually wanting to be around her._

_Thank you so much to **rookanga,**_** _princessofd_**_, and one **guest** for reviewing the last chapter! Please continue to review if you've read it, and favorite/follow if you enjoyed it!_


	16. Chapter 16

Prussia continued to sit on the mattress, watching the locked door, prepared for it to open at any moment. Despite his fear and discomfort, he could not suppress a smirk at the thought of the way Russia must feel now. He had come back downstairs intending to torment his prisoner, and instead found him untied and wrapped in a blanket and talking to the one person he feared.

The inevitable repercussions for this would, he knew, likely be brutal; but he hardly cared anymore. He had scored a victory today and Russia could not take that away from him.

However, these brief feelings of cheer slowly faded away as he continued to watch the door, painfully aware that every passing second brought him closer to the time it would open again. He had no idea what he ought to do when Russia came in; he was well aware that he had no strength left to offer much resistance, but at least he was still wearing his boots and he could kick. He found himself wondering if it was worth the punishment he knew he would receive to try and resist so, and quashed the thought immediately: of _course_ it was worthwhile to resist. It was the best way to remind Russia that he had failed in trying to break him down; that he was fighting a losing battle.

_Take that, Russland_, he thought, with some pride. _Your stupid Wall can't break me down. My people aren't going to stand for this and neither will I._

He adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, feeling better. He was beginning, albeit very slowly, to dry off, and his shaking had died down and he had begun to regain the dexterity in his fingers. His hair was still damp, and he considered using the blanket to rub it dry but decided against it; he was still too cold to want to move.

Russia did not enter. The pale, weak daylight outside faded gradually into darkness. In fact, it was not until the entire night had passed—spent, for Prussia, in sleepless anxiety—and the daylight was beginning once more to creep into the cold, dingy cell that the door opened again.

Prussia had almost given himself over to sleep, and was now lying on the mattress instead of sitting, curled up with the blanket pulled tight around him, still facing the door. His eyelids had grown almost too heavy to keep open, despite the tenseness in all his muscles from stressed anticipation that would not allow him to really relax. Despite this, the noise of the key in the lock made him jerk upright again immediately, the blanket falling from his shoulders. Silently cursing himself for the display of fear, he tried to compose his features into his usual cocky confidence, knowing fully that he was not succeeding very well.

Russia was not holding the pipe, he noticed with a jolt of surprise. Its absence was, at this point, far more conspicuous than its presence would have been. He looked different than he usually did; different, in fact, than he had even the day before. He was haggard and frustrated—not angry, as Prussia had been expecting, but frustrated, as if things were not going his way and he was powerless to prevent it.

Prussia had been expecting to feel a sense of triumph at this, but was surprised to realize that he was just confused. Russia looked almost taken aback to find that he was still there, but as soon as he saw him his face darkened with real anger again.

"Your people are suffering for their defiance," he said grimly. "As you will suffer for yours."

His fists were clenched. Prussia waited tensely for him to make the first move, preparing to react in self-defense, but Russia simply stood there. The Soviet had an intolerable skill in keeping Prussia off-guard; he was never quite sure what to expect from his captor, and because of this he was never ready for what did come.

Apparently Russia just wanted to talk.

"The East Germans have no idea of the benefits they have reaped from their time as a Soviet satellite nation," Russia began slowly, with a tone that suggested he intended to begin a rehearsed speech.

Prussia relaxed slightly: if nothing else, this meant he was not about to be attacked.

"Your economic growth, despite the war reparations you of course were required to pay, has continued unabated—with our help, naturally. You have benefitted greatly from our influence, naturally. Your people have begun to develop their own culture, separate from West Germany; in fact, in many sectors there is a certain . . . separatist pride. A pride in the national identity which has been created by the partition. In many cases your people do not desire reunification, and are proud of their unique culture."

His fists had, at last, unclenched, and he seemed to have drawn himself up with a certain patriotic pride that made Prussia roll his eyes. Russia smiled a little, seemingly unmoved by this.

"Loyalty to the Communist Party is a sure way to land a job," he continued, the malice heavy in his voice now. "And many East Germans have no issue with this, and are happy to do so—are proud, even, of their new Communism. The Soviet Union takes care of its satellites. We have—"

"Are you just going to stand there monologuing?" interrupted Prussia. The mention of the Communist Party—and the suggestion that East Germans would capitulate and join in order to get a job—had stung far more than he was willing to show Russia. He knew in the back of his mind that his words were a terrible idea, but hardly cared at this point; he was tired of hearing the Russian speak, and violence was better than boredom.

_At least_, he reminded himself, _it was always better than boredom when you were sure that you'd come out on top._

Certainly when he was the Prussian Empire, violence had been better than almost anything. Here, when it was solely against him and he had no way to deal it out himself, it was far less desirable. He supposed there was a moral lesson to be learned here, but decided that it was better to ignore it.

Russia stopped mid-sentence, momentarily taken aback, and then he laughed mirthlessly. "But I had not gotten to the best part yet, _malyutka_," he said. "You think so much of your people, of their rebelliousness, and I have not even told you about it. You would like to hear about that, _da_?"

This time it was Prussia who was briefly lost for words. Then, against his will, he found himself nodding. He knew that it had to be some kind of trap—Russia would not simply offer him information for nothing—but he wanted to know how his people were doing, even if it was painful to hear.

"Loyalty to the Communist Party"—yeah, right, he thought spitefully. _Verdammte Kommunisten. Nobody tells the East Germans how to think._

"You may be less happy to hear that your population has . . . shrunk. You have lost a great deal of the intellectuals in your population, and their desertion has, naturally, hurt your economy." His smile grew benevolent. "But I will protect them even if they try to harm themselves. I will restore your country. I will not let your population shrink any further. You should be grateful to me, little one."

Prussia raised his eyebrows. He was trying very hard to deny what he knew, in the back of his mind, that this meant.

"We have to keep them in somehow, _nyet_? And sometimes the wall itself is not enough. We must make an example of those who are trying to escape, to deter others. It is the only way. Sometimes love must be harsh."

Prussia tensed again, as if bracing himself for what he knew was coming. He said nothing; he wanted to hear Russia say it, to know for certain just what kind of retribution he owed the Soviet when he got the chance.

"They have been . . . tiresome. Despite the increased guards, they have continued to try to get across to West Germany. Several hundred have had to die to get my point across."

The words hit Prussia like a physical blow. _Several hundred_. This he had not expected: the sheer number had caught him off guard. Russia was still speaking, his voice lecturing.

"And yet, you must understand that we are being merciful. We are not simply killing randomly. We are shooting down those who defy the law, who leave us no other choice. They choose their own executions, you understand. I do not _want_ to kill your people; they are as much mine as they are yours. Yet they cannot be sensible."

Prussia clasped his hands together and stared at the ground. He steadied his breathing. The numbers had to be exaggerated. It could not be true.

"Not all of the citizens are so foolish, however. Some of them are quite well-behaved. As I have said, they have developed quite the cultural identity. They are proud of their identity which is separate from Germany . . . and, as such, from the dead kingdom of Prussia as well."

_Yeah, yeah, the Prussian Empire is dead, _Prussia thought bitterly. He had heard this before; the words had lost most of their power to hurt him.

"They have moved on to greater things. The palace in Berlin has been wrecked, and the statue of Frederick II has been removed from East Berlin."

That, at last, caught his attention. Prussia was on his feet in an instant, his voice a shout, hands balled into fists ready to fight.

"Fuck you! _Nein_! You knocked down the statue of Old Fritz?"

Anger and hatred and grief were running through him, emotions overwhelming because they were so unexpected. Once again, Russia had managed to catch him off guard; this had hurt him even more than the revelation that those who tried to escape were being shot, because that, at least, he had steeled himself for.

He could have punched Russia's oversized nose for those words, and to hell with the consequences. Russia took an involuntary step backwards, then quickly stepped forward again, laughing at the sight of the furious tears glistening in Prussia's eyes.

_If this was really true . . ._ He was shaking again, this time with emotion rather than with the cold. His knees felt weak. If_ his people had done that, of their own accord, denied their history and embraced their new circumstances, it would be almost too much to bear.__  
_

He made himself calm down. If it was true, it was not true of everyone: he could still feel his people fighting. He lifted his eyes to meet Russia's again with fresh defiance.

"You made them do it," he accused. "You just want them to forget that they were once Prussia and they were once Germany."

"No, _malenkiy_, I did not. Your people desired it," Russia told him. His voice was cold again; he had put aside the feigned warmth now. "Many of them desire to deny any continuity with the old kingdom of Prussia—they prefer to develop their own culture, their own country."

"Don't they fucking _know_ all that Old Fritz did for—"

"It no longer matters, though, does it, little GDR? The German Democratic Republic is no more Prussia than it is part of Germany; this is what they want now."

"Not all of them," Prussia shot back. He was vaguely aware that he was still standing up, in a fighting stance, facing Russia untied, and yet the large nation had still not made a move towards him. "I know that's not true. And it's not as good there as you make it sound. How else have you oppressed them, Ivan?"

"It is not _oppression_. Such an ugly word. We must establish our control to gain their respect. You are part of my family now and you must acknowledge your lower position."

"_Verpiss dich_," muttered Prussia savagely. "You're not going to win this."

He was closer to Russia than he had realized. He was not expecting the fist that came, seemingly out of nowhere, and connected with his temple with savage force, knocking him to the floor.

"_No German_!" Russia's voice was raised, almost a shout. "I have told you this before!"

Prussia scrambled to his feet again, almost happy at the opportunity he had been given, and aimed a kick at Russia despite a sudden lightheaded sensation that made the movement difficult. His heavy boot connected with Russia's side and the Soviet grunted with pain, reached out, and grabbed Prussia's wrist in a viselike grip, entirely unperturbed by the white-haired nation's struggling.

He dragged Prussia closer to him and wrenched his wrist up behind him with one hand, wrapping the other arm around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Prussia reached up with his free hand, pulling at the choking arm with all his depleted strength without success.

"I see you will have to be restrained even more than your people," Russia said coldly. "Perhaps it will be a good reminder for you, _da, milochka_?"

Prussia desperately wanted to curse at the Russian, but could not speak. The arm across his neck was pressing against his windpipe with brutal strength. His vision was going dark around the edges and what strength he had been able to summon was rapidly depleting. His limbs felt like water.

Russia forced him to his knees, loosened his hold just enough to allow him to take a swift gulp of air, and then tightened it again, making him stay conscious. Prussia closed his eyes, though this did little since at this point he could barely see.

He felt, though he could do nothing to prevent it happening, Russia shove him to the floor, shackle his hands in front of him, pull them up and attach them with a short chain to a ring in the wall so that he was secured in a sitting position against the wall. Russia wound another chain around his neck and attached this, too, to the wall, so that it tightened almost to the point of strangulation if Prussia relaxed and slid down the wall at all.

Prussia, gasping for air, pulling himself upward by the chains on his hands to allow himself precious oxygen, still managed to focus his eyes and find Russia in front of him. He stared at him with utmost hatred, and received another heavy fist to his jaw in return, snapping his head back so that it slammed hard against the wall behind him and made him see stars, and making his eyes momentarily roll back into his skull. He spat a mouthful of blood to the floor, wishing too late that he had thought to spit it at Russia.

Russia rose to his feet and moved toward the door. "Next time I will bring my pipe," he informed Prussia, his tone ominous. "You will learn your place. I do not make promises I do not intend to keep."

He slammed out of the room and the lock clicked. Prussia closed his eyes again, exhausted in mind and body, tried to find a comfortable position and realized that there was none. The floor beneath him was still slightly wet.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Thank you all for your patience, and I hope it was worth your wait! This is another chapter I don't love, but hopefully all of you think otherwise, and I'm very glad you have continued to stay with me this long. I promise it's about to get more exciting._

_I'm taking liberties with the passage of time here, as you can tell; I hope it's not too disruptive. I'm keeping the timeline straight but events are happening much faster than they would have in actual history, for the benefit of the storyline._

_This chapter, really, was more historical context than anything else. I just find it interesting and hope you do too. I promise more actual action is about to happen—not just conversation! __All of the cultural and historical things mentioned are historically accurate._

_Thank you so much to the __six__ people who took the time to review the last chapter: __**Budgiebear23**__, __**princessofd**__, __**MusicalsAndAnime**__, __**advidartist**__, and two __**guests**__! That was a record for reviews per chapter :) P__lease know: all of you are absolutely my inspiration for continuing and I'm so grateful. A special thank you, also, to __**Wolken**__ for helping me to fix the rest of the German in the story._

**German translation:  
Russland** = Russia  
**Verdammte Kommunisten** = damn Communists  
**Nein** = no  
**Verpiss dich** = fuck off

**Russian translation:  
malyutka** = little one  
**da** = yes  
**nyet** = no  
**malenkiy** = small one  
**milochka** = darling


	17. Chapter 17

The weak daylight had faded into darkness once again, and Prussia had only just managed to find a position that, while not comfortable, allowed him to relax slightly without strangling himself, and closed his eyes in what was just about to turn to sleep, when he heard the door opening once again.

Prussia did not open his eyes this time. He hardly cared at this point who was there. He suspected Russia, and if this was the case he did not want the Soviet to think that his appearance was even worth opening his eyes to Prussia.

He had not slept in what seemed like days—maybe it _was_ days, he mused—and he was beginning to think that the lack of food and sleep was going to break him down before the beatings did. He supposed this was part of Russia's plan. Regardless, he had gotten comfortable and he wanted to sleep, and to hell with whoever had just come in the door.

A voice spoke—familiar, and not entirely unwelcome.

"Like, hey, are you awake? Gilbert?_ Wszystko w porządku_?"

He opened his eyes blearily. Poland stood there, radiating excitement and energy from every pore. He seemed to actually be bouncing on his feet.

Poland was an utter enigma to Prussia. The war—and, he recollected ruefully, the Germans in particular—had not been at all kind to him in the past years. And yet here he was, smiling, _happy_, his spirit not in the least broken by the war and his good mood unshaken at the sight of Prussia chained up, bloody, and bruised against the wall.

Prussia was not sure when _he_ had last been happy. He had certainly been relieved at being untied, or at not being beaten, and he had certainly enjoyed a certain malicious pleasure at the thought of Russia's fear of his sister, but that was hardly real happiness.

"Can't a prisoner get some peace around here?" he mumbled, pulling himself further upright with his manacled hands, hating the sound of metal clinking against metal.

Poland's smile faded briefly, replaced with mild concern. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't meant to bother you if you're, like, busy . . ."

"No, it's okay, I'm not busy," Prussia said, trying to smile. "You're good. I've become pretty popular, it seems. Ukraine, Belarus, Russia, now you."

Poland nodded enthusiastically. "Yup! I know Lizzie wanted to come and see you—she's been trying—but Toris told her not to. He said it'd be too dangerous."

"He's probably right. She should stay away." The words grieved him to say, but he pushed this emotion away adamantly. He did not want to see her enough to put her in danger to do so. Her safety came first.

"Huh. Kat said the same thing. I'm not scared, though. It's exciting down here, y'know? Like, I don't know, being in a horror movie or something."

Prussia laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, glad it seems that way."

Poland, as usual, completely missed the sarcasm. "I know, right?" he said cheerfully. "Except it's, like, _super _cold. I don't know how you put up with that. I had to put on an extra sweater and my warm socks because I wanted to come and see you and you're not even wearing a _shirt_. You know—"

Prussia interrupted. "Hey, you mentioned Hungary. Is she doing okay?"

Poland nodded vigorously. "Yeah, she's fine. She's, like, a really good cook so everybody likes her. Except she said she worries about you and, like, she's sad that nobody's letting her take food down to you and she hopes you're getting enough to eat. I heard her telling Kat that she hopes you're not, like, being an idiot or anything, and aggravating Russia." He paused, as if mulling over something in his mind. "_Are_ you being an idiot?" he questioned curiously.

Prussia scowled. "Tell her not to worry about me. I'm doing just fine."

" 'Kay." Poland rummaged around in his pocket, his grin widening when he saw Prussia's sudden interest as he pulled out a piece of paper. "Check it, though, I got you another letter!"

Prussia had been hoping, without truly letting himself expect anything, that this was the case since he saw that it was Poland, and could hardly hide his eagerness at the thought of hearing his brother's words again.

"This time I just got to the door before anybody else did, and Russia was out so nobody was going to tell on me, right?"

"Is he gone now?"

"He left yesterday. Good thing, too, he'd probably kill me if he knew I was down here." Poland laughed lightly. "Nobody's gonna tell on me or whatever, though. Like, we stick up for each other."

"Good," said Prussia, relieved.

"You wanna hear it?"

Prussia nodded, smiling genuinely this time. He was not even sure how much time had passed since he had received the first letter and he was desperate for news—for something, anything, from his brother.

Poland grinned again, cleared his throat in an officious manner and began.

_"Dear Gilbert,_" he began, "_I still haven't heard from you and I am beginning to worry. It has already been longer than any of us guessed, and the wall was unforeseen, of course. I hope, as always, that you are being treated well, but I cannot hide my concern, given the circumstances of your people._

_"On that note, I realize I don't know how aware you are of your people's situation. They are doing better than could be expected, I suppose, at least from what I have heard. The economy has recovered fairly well and the economic growth is nearly as rapid there as it has been here. However, lots of people have come over to West Germany from East Germany, though the stream of people has slowed, and their stories are not so good."_

Poland stopped, his smile fading again. "It gets, like, a little sad," he said awkwardly. "You want me to keep reading?"

"Yeah, please. It's okay. I want to hear all of it."

Poland searched the letter until he found his place again, and continued. _"They say there are guards on the Berlin Wall with orders to shoot those who attempt to cross over. They say that the people are oppressed under the new regime, and that those who speak against it may face imprisonment. They say that there is not enough food, and the people are struggling._

_"I know that the Allies once brought East Germany food via airlifts during the Berlin Blockade, before the wall was even erected. They are continuing to help us—despite everything. Perhaps it is out of a desire to stand against Russia and the Soviet Union rather than out of al—alt—"_

Poland stammered himself to a halt. "Like, your brother uses some big words. What's this word?" He held up the letter, pointing.

Prussia followed his finger. "Altruism."

"Oh, okay. Thanks. So—_r__ather than out of altruism or forgiveness. However, regardless of their intentions, I am grateful. And because of this continued support, I hope and trust that ways can be found to supply your people with what they need. I believe that we do have the support behind us that we require, and that reunification will happen before long."_

Prussia was relieved to hear that this letter, unlike the first one, had regained his brother's usual organized and formal style. He hoped that this meant Ludwig was doing well, recovering from the war. He was frustrated that Ludwig had not included anything about himself in the letter, though he was intensely grateful for the information about his own people; this must mean Ludwig suspected that he was somewhat cut off.

_"Until this happens , I can only hope all of these frightening rumors I have heard from the East German refugees are not true. But I cannot help but worry. And it concerns me that I have not heard from you. Please, Gilbert, if you can, write back to me. I need to hear how you are. Yes, große Bruder, I know that you can take care of yourself, as you told me so many times when we were younger. But do it for my sake, to reassure me. If you do not write back I will assume you are unable to do so, or not getting my letters._

_"I pray you are well and that I will see you again soon. We will keep fighting for reunification. We are not truly two nations. Here we refer to it as "two German states in one German nation." The separation is temporary; no wall, whether it be guarded or no, can keep the divide forever. Even now, we do not view East Germans as foreign citizens, nor those who cross over as immigrants. They are simply returning to another part of their home country. Germany will not be whole again until you are home._" Poland glanced up at Prussia, who was once again trying not to cry. "You okay?"

Prussia nodded, unable to find words. Poland turned back to the letter and finished: _"Please, brother, write back to me. I will await your reply anxiously. __Until then, all my love, __Ludwig._

_"PS: Gilbird and the dogs send their love as well."_

Prussia could not suppress a faint smile at these last words. Poland looked up at him, a trifle anxiously.

"Okay, so you look happy now. That's good. Does that mean this is good news?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at this. Had Feliks not even listened to himself as he read?

"No, Feliks, it's not good news. I haven't heard good news in . . . in I don't even know how long. But it's news, and I needed that; Toris used to be the one to give me updates on what was going on, and I haven't seen him in a while. And Ludwig sounds like he's doing okay, and _that's_ a good thing, if it's really true. Do you know how he is?"

Poland sighed, shook his head. "Nope. Sorry. I don't know any of this stuff. Nobody ever tells me anything. He's rebuilding, I guess, like we all are."

"Yeah."

Prussia stared at the ground, trying to suppress his emotions at hearing from Germany again. He was almost grateful that Ludwig had finally come to the conclusion that his older brother was either not receiving his letters or unable to reply; while he hated that his little brother was worrying about him, he guessed that the suspense and stress of not knowing would almost be worse than knowledge of the truth.

Poland, who had settled down on the ground beside Prussia while reading the letter, started folding the letter up and preparing to get to his feet.

"I'd better get out of here now," he said. "They'll want my help upstairs; I'm probably supposed to be, like, cleaning or something." He patted Prussia on the shoulder as best he could, in a friendly way. "Like, you take care of yourself, and don't be an idiot or whatever like Liz was saying, okay?"

Prussia tried to smile, and then over Poland's shoulder he saw the doorknob turning once again and the door being pushed open.

Russia stood in the doorway, his purple eyes fixed on the piece of paper in Poland's hands.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_More brotherly love . . . and a cliffhanger . . . I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter should be exciting, both to write and, with any luck, to read._

_Sorry for the short length! I just feel bad for making all of you wait so long so I'm trying to get it completed more quickly now to make up for it._

_Thank you to_ _**rookanga**_ _for reviewing the last chapter—I so appreciate the continued feedback! As always, please review if you read it, and favorite or follow if you enjoyed it!_

**German translation:  
große Bruder** = big brother

**Polish translation:  
Wszystko w porządku?** = Are you okay?


	18. Chapter 18

His purple eyes moved quickly from Poland, to Prussia, and then back to the letter in Poland's hands. Understanding dawned on his face immediately, followed by anger.

Poland jumped to his feet and stuffed the letter into his pocket far too late, the cheerful happiness drained from his face at a stroke. He was trembling all over, his bright green eyes wide with terror.

"M-Mr. Russia! I thought you weren't here—I thought—they said you were—"

"I came back early," Russia said icily. "And I see now that it was for the best that I did, if my orders are disobeyed blatantly the moment I step outside the door."

Poland opened his month to protest further, but the only sound that came out was a terrified squeaking noise. Russia held out his hand.

"Give me the letter."

Poland looked at Prussia, as if looking for instructions. Prussia nodded frantically; it was already too late to conceal it and he did not want Poland to get in any further trouble. He wanted desperately to be able to step in, to protect Poland even if he could not defend himself, but he could move no more than a few inches away from the wall because of the chains.

Russia reached out and took the letter from Poland's shaking grip. Poland simply stood there, frozen, his empty hand still extended, and then Russia drew his hand back and struck him heavily across the face.

The force of the blow twisted Poland halfway around and sent him sprawling to the ground. He stared up at Russia, his green eyes wide with fear, one hand raised in a weak attempt to defend himself.

Russia took another step forward towards him. Poland flinched, but Russia stopped there and simply stood, glaring down at him furiously. Then he flung his hand in the direction of the door, his voice raised to a shout.

_"Ubiraysya!"_

Poland clambered jerkily to his feet and stumbled from the room, hand on the side of his face, and Russia turned his full attention back to Prussia.

"So you have continued to defy me," he said in a low voice. "And not only that, but you have led the rest of my family to disobedience as well."

Did that mean Russia thought Prussia had somehow put Poland up to it? Prussia had no idea how he could have done such a thing—though he knew that he would have done so in a second if he could—but felt a faint relief nonetheless at the thought that Russia's wrath would come down heavier on him than on Poland.

"I see I have been far too gentle with you, little GDR, a mistake I do not intend to make again."

Prussia did not answer. Overwhelming guilt had washed over him at the sight of Poland cowering on the ground at Russia's feet—a sight he had seen before.

Only before, he and West had both been standing beside Russia, guns aimed at Poland.

The thought made him shudder now. He could still hear West's voice, cold and steely, as he ordered Poland to surrender. Poland had been in bad shape then: beaten, bleeding, his blond hair matted with blood and bright green eyes dulled.

_His fault._

_He had done that to Poland, and even so Poland had forgiven him, had done what he could to help his former enemy because he understood his sufferings. __Rather than enjoying the justice of it, he had wanted to help._

_And now Poland would suffer again for doing so._

The thought made him feel sick with disgust at himself and with guilt.

He and West had expected the invasion of Poland to be little more than practice for the rest of Europe, and indeed it had hardly been difficult, but Poland had given them an unpleasant surprise nonetheless when they invaded the first time.

His forces had been so obviously inferior to the German and Russian troops—they had been caught off guard, unable to be marshaled quickly, trying to pit their _cavalry_ against the German tanks and Luftwaffe. And yet they had not surrendered easily. They had resisted, fought with a strength and ferocity of which they had never dreamed, holding out against troops which vastly outnumbered and outgunned them.

Even after his defeat, he had continued to be unruly; the Polish resistance movement had been one of the strongest in Europe.

He was far tougher than he looked and acted.

Once this had angered Prussia; it had been such a great source of frustration to him and his brother. Now it gave him a faint hope that Poland would be all right, that he, too, would stay strong and refuse to give in.

He was so lost in these all-consuming thoughts that he scarcely noticed Russia balling up his fist until it connected with his jaw, slamming the back of his head against the wall. For a moment all he could see was blackness and he could not think, pain radiating through his head and down his neck. Russia aimed another punch at him and this time Prussia moved to the side just in time; Russia's fist connected with the cold concrete wall rather than with Prussia's head, and he swore loudly as a painful-sounding crunch came from his hand.

Prussia laughed.

Another blow hit him in the stomach, hard enough to leave him breathless and send a wave of nausea through him. If he had not been without food for the last few days, he probably would have thrown up. He hated the position he was chained in, unable to move—to escape the blows, if he could not strike back or even defend himself. He felt his ribs crack again as another fist hit him in the side with brutal strength, and an agonized gasp escaped his lips.

Russia was not holding back anymore, no longer trying not to hurt him too badly. He had learned through experience how much Prussia could take, and he would give no less. He grabbed a handful of his white hair and used it to pin his head to the wall so that he could no longer move away, and struck him again.

When Russia had bloodied his knuckles on Prussia's face, he unlocked the manacles around his wrists and Prussia slumped to the ground. His nose was bleeding, his mouth full of blood, and he could barely see. His breathing was hoarse and labored; several blows had missed his face and landed on his neck and throat.

Russia paused until he tried to raise himself up again, and then kicked him in the side—just once. Then he knelt down beside him, waiting patiently until his eyes focused again. He gripped his throat with one huge hand, pulling him upright into a sitting position against the wall.

He was smiling again. "Can you hear me, _malyutka_?"

Prussia did not move. He closed his eyes.

Russia reached for his wrist, bending it backwards until Prussia winced. He repeated his question, more fiercely this time. "Can you hear me?"

Prussia nodded weakly.

"I have been waiting for a long time, GDR. I would very much like to hear you tell me now that you surrender, that you will give in. You should know by now that you are not going to win."

Prussia scowled, though his face was nearly numb by this point and any expression was not likely to look like much.

Russia waited for Prussia to say something. "Well?" he said presently. "Have you had enough? If you ask me to stop, my little stubborn one, then I will."

Prussia drew in a long, deep breath, despite the pain this immediately caused in his fractured ribs and bruised sides, and made himself meet Russia's eyes. A trickle of blood was running down his cheek, but he did not have the energy in his arms to reach up and wipe it away.

He saw the eager anticipation in Russia's face and smiled weakly back, feeling his lips crack open as he did so.

"_Verpiss dich."_

The smile faded in an instant. Russia, who was still holding Prussia's wrist in his hand, immediately bent it far enough back to break it.

Prussia's cry of pain was cut off as another blow hit him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground against the wall. Russia rose to his feet and aimed another vicious kick at his stomach.

Then he left him there, crumpled on the ground, and returned in a few minutes holding his pipe in his hand.

Prussia was unconscious long before the blows subsided.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Sorry for the wait—I really didn't mean to just leave it on a cliffhanger and abandon you like that! Another short chapter, but the next one should be longer. This one needed to happen to push events along, as you'll see in the next chapter._

_What did you think of the flashback? I felt like I really did need to address the relations between Poland and Germany, as well as bring up the fact that Russia and Germany were once allies, so I hope that was worked in reasonably well._

_Thank you to **Budgiebear23**, **rookanga, takelo14, advidartist** and **Guest** for their kind reviews! Please continue to review if you read it, and favorite or follow if you enjoyed!_

**Russian translation:  
****Ubiraysya** = get out  
**malyutka **= little one

**German translation  
****Verpiss dich** = fuck off


	19. Chapter 19

When he awoke, not jerking awake as he usually did but instead swimming slowly into a faint and uneasy consciousness, he realized he was lying on a bed, and he was warm.

His first thought was that he had died and gone to heaven. He was comfortable, the mattress was soft, and he could not remember when he had last been anything but freezing cold.

_So this is it. Russia finally beat me to death. And I still won. I never surrendered. And now I'm away from him in heaven. That must be it._

He saw the glaring flaw in this idea and frowned, suddenly dubious.

_Heaven? Me? Really_?

This hope, however faint, was immediately quashed when he tried to move and fiery arrows of pain immediately shot down his limbs, so intense that he gave an abrupt cry of anguish. He bit down on his lower lip to silence himself, hard enough to draw blood. Well, more blood; his lip had already been bleeding. His mouth still contained the metallic taste of blood. He desperately wanted food.

He lifted his head to survey himself and assess the situation. The first thing that he noticed were the straps holding him down—not tight enough to noticeable if he did not move, but tight enough that they went taut right away if he tried to bend his arms or legs much. His attempts hurt badly and he gave up quickly on testing the strength of his bonds; they were strong enough.

His next assessment was a bit more positive. He was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt; _that_ was a welcome change. However, from there it quickly went downhill again. Underneath the shirt, he thought he felt bandages. His arms were both bandaged, one of them just around the wrist and the other in a splint; it looked like his right arm had been broken, as well as his left wrist. He was very glad he could not remember that happening. He could only see out of one eye, and even this limited vision seemed blurred. His head hurt, a dull pain that quickly turned sharp if he tried to move.

He had the eerie sense that he was now being held together entirely by the tight bandages all over his body, and would fall apart if they were unwrapped. This idea unnerved him badly, but trying to think about it made his head hurt worse.

He moved his head gingerly—not slowly enough to prevent it throbbing in protest—and took in his surroundings with a critical eye. He was back in the bedroom he had been brought to when he first came to the house. Someone had carried him upstairs, out of the basement, and bandaged him up.

He could not imagine that this would have been allowed if it was merely out of kindness. He must have been brought here, bandaged up, and treated, only because he would have died otherwise.

The thought scared him a little. He had been perfectly willing, only a minute earlier, to accept that he was already dead, but thinking of _almost_ dying somehow brought it home much more for him, and made him suddenly grateful that he was still, somehow, alive—even in his current state.

Probably if he had been human he would already be dead, he mused; perhaps he would have been dead a very long time ago. The thought gave him a pang of sympathy. Poor humans. They were just so _fragile_.

_What's wrong with me?_ he thought, disgusted with himself. Suddenly_ I'm feeling sorry for everybody._

He shifted himself as best he was able, the movement exceptionally painful. His face was itching under the bandage, but he could not move his hand enough to scratch the itch; he tried to move his head to rub it against his shoulder, but this immediately hurt his neck and arm so badly that he quickly gave up the attempt. At the very least, the pain distracted him from the itching.

He wanted to sit up; whoever had arranged the pillows under his head had not supported his neck quite enough to allow him to look around the room without lifting his head and causing himself tremendous pain. Ordinarily pain would not really have bothered him, but he worried that he would damage something further if he persisted, so he gave up and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

He had spent a great deal of time staring at this ceiling when he had first come to the Soviet Union. It was not an interesting ceiling—flat gray, without even any flecks in which he could find patterns. It was familiar, but not in a good way; this was the first thing he had seen in Russia's house, when he had first been tied down here recovering from war injuries. The _verdammt_ ceiling had been starting to make him seriously claustrophobic by the time he had been moved from this room; every day it had seemed to get a little closer.

He closed his one good eye so he would not have to see the fucking ceiling anymore, then opened it again quickly since closing it had made him begin to fall asleep almost immediately. He felt exhausted, both in body and mind, but he did not want to sleep again; he had only just woken up and thoughts of death made him want to cherish what consciousness he had, despite the fact that everything still seemed fuzzy and his one open eye was taking much longer to focus than it should have.

Another concussion, he decided, this one worse than the one he'd had before. That also explained the sharp pains in his head, and the wave of nausea every time he moved it, though the nausea and lightheadedness might also just be because he had not eaten in so long.

He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He hoped that he had not been drugged again, as he had been when he first came to the house, but he supposed that it did not really matter if he had been.

He wanted someone to come in, anyone he could speak to. He wanted information and he was getting nervous being alone.

Almost as if in response to this thought, the door opened no more than five minutes later, and a young man stood there with sandy blond hair and green eyes behind neat glasses.

Prussia ran quickly through the list of everyone who lived in the house to identify him, despite the pain this caused his head. _Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. Poland. Hungary. The Baltics: Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia. I've met everyone except for Latvia and Estonia, and it sounds like Latvia's younger. This must be Estonia._

Estonia was standing there in the doorway rather awkwardly, holding a bowl in his hands; he entered the room slowly when Prussia looked up at him.

"I'm not usually sent to do this kind of thing," he said a little apologetically, "but everyone else was busy. I don't think we've met before. My name is Estonia. You can call me Eduard."

"I'm East. Well. Gilbert, I guess."

"The GDR, right?"

"Please just call me Gilbert."

Estonia nodded understandingly, slightly more at ease now. "Yes, of course." He glanced down at the bowl in his hands and started a little, as if he had forgotten it was there. "Well . . . I've brought you food. I . . . I imagine it's been a while since you've eaten."

Prussia nodded. That was a mistake. He shut his eye again, gritting his teeth against the sudden sharp pain in his head.

"Concussion?" asked Estonia sympathetically.

"Yeah . . . I think so." Prussia drew a deep breath, making himself relax. The tension in his body was just making everything hurt more. "Bad one. Can I have that food now?"

"Oh. Yes. I'll have to feed you, though, because you're strapped down."

"I don't care."

"And your jaw was dislocated when we brought you up, so it might still be a bit stiff."

"I really don't care. I haven't eaten in days."

"You're lucky, though," Estonia said as he crossed the room and seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed. He placed the bowl on the nightstand and used the pillow to help prop up Prussia's head, then reached for the bowl again and carefully placed a spoonful of soup in Prussia's mouth. "It could have easily been broken, and that would be much harder to recover from. Though I suppose you've got a lot to recover from as it is."

Prussia said nothing; eating was taking too much concentration for him to be able to, or want to, focus on anything. The food was such a relief; it warmed him from the inside and immediately reduced the lightheadedness which had been plaguing him. He did not speak until he had finished the bowl, then he spoke again when Estonia gathered up the bowl and spoon and got to his feet, preparing to leave.

"I don't suppose you can stay and give me any news?" he asked hopefully.

Estonia hesitated. "Well," he said, "I guess I can; Russia's not going to come looking for me, I don't think. I'm usually good at getting away from him."

"Lucky."

"It's not _just_ good luck," Estonia said, with some pride. "It takes a lot of intelligence to escape from him so regularly, you know. It's a talent."

"_Ja, ja_. If you've got that talent, that's good luck. What have I missed?"

Estonia thought for a moment, sitting back down on the bed as he did so and putting the empty bowl back on the nightstand. "Let's see. Russia was pretty angry at Poland yesterday—was that because of—"

Prussia's heart had skipped a beat at the mention of Poland's name. "Yeah, it was because of me, and I owe him big time for that. I'd have given anything to be able to protect him yesterday. Eduard, is he okay?"

"He's okay," said Estonia reassuringly. "He's got a few bumps and bruises now he didn't have before. Nothing like what you got."

Prussia breathed a sigh of relief that sent stabbing pain through his ribs. "_Gott sei dank_."

"He's already his usual cheerful self again," Estonia said with a small smile. "He can get a little bit annoying at times, but he's nice to have around. He's one of the few people who can cheer up Lithuania when he gets depressed, and he doesn't even really try; he's just his own oblivious self and it's good for Toris."

"Good. What about—um, everyone else?"

He had been intending to ask about Hungary, whom he missed terribly, but decided at the last minute that he did not want Estonia aware that he cared about her. Ukraine already knew, and that was already dangerous, although he was fairly sure he could trust her. Fortunately, Estonia did not seem to notice his brief hesitation.

"Well, Mr. Russia is in a bad mood, as usual, though I suppose it's worse today than it ordinarily is because you managed to rile him up."

Guilt once more nagged at Prussia's mind. They were all afraid now—Latvia and Estonia managing to stay out of the way, it seemed, and Lithuania was getting abused again because Prussia might die if Russia used him as a punching bag like he usually did. This was his fault; he was the one who had angered Russia and now he was not taking the punishment for it as he should.

"Who else . . . Well, his crazy sister Belarus is her normal creepy self."

Prussia bit his lip. "No, Natalia's not so bad. She's not crazy. She's just, you know, lonely. Nobody ever takes the time to talk to her."

Estonia raised his eyebrows skeptically. "All right, if you say so. Anyway, Ukraine and Hungary get along well, and so Hungary's managed to stay out of trouble so far if she just sticks around with Ekaterina. Lithuania . . . Well, Lithuania always takes the brunt of Mr. Russia's anger, so he's not in great shape right now, but Poland's been looking out for him and so it's not as bad as it could be. And Latvia's managed to hide, so he's all right too. And I'm all right; I just stay out of the way, as I've said."

"Is there—is there anything I can do?"

Estonia laughed a little ruefully. "There isn't much you're in a position to do, GD—that is, Gilbert. But I thank you for the thought anyway."

Prussia cast around for any other conversation topics, anything to keep Estonia here while still getting the information he wanted. "Who took care of me?" he inquired at last.

"Well, Mr. Russia was the one to carry you upstairs, though I suppose you've lost enough weight in your time here that any of us could have done it. No offense."

Prussia scowled. He hated the fact that the muscles he had spent so long carefully honing were beginning to atrophy from lack of use; he had spent too long unable to move. He doubted he could do a pull-up anymore, even if so many of his bones hadn't been broken.

"And then Ukraine and Hungary cleaned you up," Estonia continued matter-of-factly, "and Lithuania and I set your broken bones and bandaged you up. Latvia was supposed to help too, I think, but Lithuania sent him away; he said that he shouldn't see so much blood. You weren't in good shape."

Prussia scarcely heard these last words; he had stopped listening when he heard Hungary's name. _She_ had been near him, then. The thought made him smile a little in spite of himself, turning away so that Estonia would not see. He wished he could have been conscious for that. He wanted to ask more questions, but felt that he could not ask anything specific without arousing suspicion. Thinking too much was only making his headache worse, but he did his best to ignore it. He felt like he was trying to make his way through a fog in slow-motion.

"You said you don't usually get sent to do stuff like this," he said finally.

Estonia shook his head. Prussia envied the ease with which he did so; he knew better than to try and shake his head in his current state. "Usually I just get out of the way and Russia doesn't see me, so he sends somebody else."

"Who usually does?"

"Well, Ukraine has been the one taking care of you; she's come up a few times while you were still unconscious. Hungary sometimes comes too; as I've said, they've become good friends."

Prussia hid a smirk. Hungary had become good friends with Ukraine just in time to help take care of him. She knew how to get what she wanted; she always had.

"Or Lithuania comes, if she's busy," added Estonia. "Now you're conscious again I suppose it'll be the same people, so you can see them yourself."

"Have I been drugged?"

"I don't know, actually; probably yes, though, for your own sake." Estonia was beginning to get fidgety, and was watching the door. "You'll recover faster if you don't move around and the best way to ensure that is to sedate you. If you have been, then it's Kat or Toris doing it, not me."

Prussia said nothing. If he _had_ been drugged, then he would at least have a chance for more company when someone else came in to administer the drug, and he was now aware that he could look forward to Ukraine, at the very least, and probably Hungary as well. The thought was a very pleasant one.

Estonia sighed and looked around the room, as if trying to find a clock to give him an excuse to leave. He found none. "Well," he said, awkward again, "I'd better go now; Mr. Russia will know where I am and I try to avoid that. It was very nice to meet you, though, Gilbert."

Prussia could think of nothing else to keep Estonia in the room, so he simply agreed, catching himself just before he nodded. "Yeah, _tschüss_, Eduard," he muttered.

He was well aware that Estonia had not said he would come in and see him again. The blond Baltic seemed to have gotten Russia avoidance down to a science. Prussia could certainly admire that.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling again, listening to the door close behind Estonia. There was no sound of locking; he supposed that it was not worth anyone's time to make sure he was locked in. He doubted he could have made it to the door even if he had not been strapped down.

He closed his good eye again with a faint sigh, carefully getting himself into a shallow breathing pattern that hurt the least. There was nothing more worth staying awake for now, and the food in his stomach had made him feel better than he had in a long time, broken bones or no broken bones. It was only seconds before he was fast asleep.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_I worry that I didn't do a good job characterizing Estonia; I'd really wanted to bring him in, but there's just not a lot to go off of with his canon personality. I worry that I made him uninteresting. But let me know what you think! I think it makes sense that he kind of stayed out of the way, which is why he hadn't even met Prussia before._

_Thank you so much to __**Budgiebear23**__ and __**takelo14**__, who reviewed the last chapter! I can't even tell you how exciting it's been for me to get all of these reviews, and how grateful I am to all of you who have taken the time to let me know what you think. It's such an inspiration. As always, please continue to review if you read, and favorite and follow if you enjoyed it!_

**German translation:  
Verdammt** = damned  
**Gott sei dank** = thank God  
**Ja** = yes/yeah  
**tschüss** = bye


	20. Chapter 20

The next few days passed without event. To his immense disappointment, it was Lithuania who invariably came in to bring him food and medicine, and he knew better than to ask the reasons why. Lithuania never spoke; he had regained his quiet, hasty nervousness and ignored all of Prussia's attempts to ask questions.

Prussia was not sedated this time, but despite this he spent most of his time asleep, or fading in and out of consciousness. He was bored more than frightened now; he hated not being able to move without pain.

He tried once to pull himself out of his bonds, deciding that the opportunity to walk around the room was worth the intense pain the struggling was causing him, and had nearly managed to do so, but had ended up tearing open stitches in his side and jolting his broken arm badly. After that he had given up; any further attempts had hurt so badly he nearly passed out.

Lithuania found him like that, bleeding all over the sheets and white as a ghost with the pain of his arm.

That was the first time he had spoken to him since his arrival back upstairs, and he had been livid.

"You're no good to anyone like this," he had snapped. "Look at you. You'd begun to heal, too—I'd had high hopes— Damn it, Gilbert, you're the only one in this fucking house who's holding out and I'm doing everything to keep you as well as you can be. Don't ruin it."

He was fuming; Prussia, who had never heard Lithuania say anything stronger than _heck_, realized this very quickly. At one point he began scolding in an unfamiliar language that Prussia assumed was Lithuanian; he then realized in the middle of a word what he was doing and immediately faltered, red in the face.

"Go on," encouraged Prussia, grinning. "I haven't heard you speak Lithuanian before, Toris."

Lithuania shook his head. "It's because I'm not supposed to."

"Toris . . ."

"Stop it, Gilbert." He squared his shoulders and his voice became stern again. "You'll have to start the healing process on your arm all over again. You knew you'd never get anywhere, even if you managed to get out of the restraints. What were you thinking?"

Prussia tried to argue back briefly, but gave up; Lithuania was not in the mood for debate and he simply cut him off, threatening to drug him if he kept on talking back. He had re-splinted his arm, tightened the straps holding him down until Prussia cursed at him, and left.

Despite this, and despite his previous silences, Prussia had grown to like Lithuania tremendously. He was no-nonsense and far tougher than he looked. He was as shy and quiet as he had ever been, but the captivity under Russia had hardened him. Russia had spoken often of Lithuania's "breaking down," but Prussia sometimes wondered how accurate this description was. Lithuania had a quiet resistance still in him that was all his own.

He was glad he had heard him use his native language. At least he still remembered it; it was still enough of a part of him that it came out when he was strongly emotional.

For his part, Russia generally left Prussia alone, for the most part; he came in occasionally simply to check at him, but never said anything. He simply stood at the foot of the bed looking at Prussia. More than once Prussia tried to taunt him, to get a reaction out of him, but he did not respond, even when Prussia called him names in German. He eventually gave up, feeling childish.

Russia seemed to be thinking.

* * *

He was beginning to settle into a dreary routine—if so it could be called that. He slept most of the time, waking up when Lithuania brought him food and medicine. He had no reason to stay awake, and so he did not unless he had to; he wanted to recuperate, and he did not want to be awake with his thoughts.

If he tried to ignore the pain of his injuries, he invariably wound up dwelling on those he missed: on Ludwig, whom he hoped desperately was doing well and rebuilding; on Hungary, just downstairs, who might be doing well but might be in the same position he was; on Feliciano, whom he prayed was cheering up Ludwig and rebuilding his own country as well. He even found himself missing Austria. The bespectacled wuss would be better company than himself.

He had always been solitary, and preferred it that way, and now he could not stop thinking about people he wanted near him. He spent a while reprimanding himself for his weakness, then wondered if it meant he was finally beginning to break down.

Wanting to be near Austria was definitely a sign of craziness.

Then one day it was not Lithuania bringing him food and medicine, but Ukraine.

To his disappointment, she had come alone, but Prussia decided to make the best of the situation. Ukraine might talk to him, and it was a break from the monotony of Lithuania's usual presence. And he could ask her about Hungary—maybe even ask if she could bring her up the next time she came in.

So he greeted her as cheerfully as he could manage, and was pleased to discover that his voice had not completely lost its usability in the long days of silence. "Hi, Kat."

She smiled a little as she entered the room, with her usual warmth. It was a welcome change from Lithuania's nervous silence.

"Hello, Gilbert, dear. Lithuania is busy, and I volunteered in his place." She sat down beside him and poured out a spoonful of the medicine, which she poked at him. Prussia glared at it with distaste. "Here, take this. Anyway, I wanted to check on you. Are you doing all right, dear?"

Prussia swallowed the medicine, grimacing as he did so. "Well, you know. I'm getting better, anyway. I don't suppose Liz can—"

She shook her head quickly. She looked nervous, but that was nothing new. "She's busy. Can you sit up?"

Prussia began the slow, painful process of inching up on the bed as far as the straps would allow so that she could help him eat more easily.

"Is she still doing okay?" he asked hopefully. "Can you tell me anything? Any news? You know, is—is your brother leaving her alone?"

"Elizabeta is doing very well, dear," Ukraine said kindly. "She's working downstairs right now. But I thought it best not to bring her with me."

Prussia swallowed again to try and get the taste of the medicine out of his mouth, without much success. He could not argue with this; Ukraine liked Hungary, he knew, and was trying to protect her. He was the one wanting to put her in danger just because he was lonely.

Suddenly he heard a noise at the door and turned quickly.

Someone was standing there in the doorway—almost hiding, it seemed, only part of the head peeking out from behind the door. His eyes were still not quite working like they were supposed to, but at the very least, he could see long hair.

He almost laughed with delight. Evidently Ukraine had just decided to surprise him.

"Kat, you _did_ bring—"

She looked momentarily panicked, and silenced him quickly with a finger to her lips. Prussia stared up at her in surprise, trying to glance around her at Hungary, who still seemed to be hiding behind the doorway. He wanted to call out to her, but Ukraine seemed to think he had better not. He turned back to Ukraine and addressed her instead.

"Why's she—"

"She wanted to come and see you," she said carefully.

"I know," said Prussia, a little alarmed now; he was suddenly afraid that Hungary had been hurt, and that's why she was hiding. "I've been wanting to see her too, so why doesn't she—"

Ukraine interrupted him again. "I told her she should come with me. As I've said, though, Hungary is working downstairs. She is very busy."

"What?"

"Oh." She seemed to come to a sudden realization. "I suppose your eyes aren't working too well, are they, dear?"

"No, I guess not. But . . ."

The person in the doorway entered the room at last and his heart sank a little; the long hair had not belonged to Hungary after all, but to Belarus. He forced the disappointment off his face and made himself smile. Belarus wasn't so bad. She was protection, if nothing else.

_What the hell is wrong with me? _he thought angrily._ I'm happy because I can get protection from a skinny girl? No way the great Prussia has fallen so far. I really am starting to crack._

He pushed these thoughts away and made his tone more welcoming. "Hi, Natalia."

She did not respond. She was still holding that knife in her hand, he noticed; he wondered if she kept it with her all the time to protect herself, or to just be intimidating. Probably to be intimidating; everyone in the house seemed to be a little afraid of her, including Russia and even—if he could read her sister's face correctly—Ukraine.

Belarus was frowning at him, but more out of confusion than anger, he thought.

"You look terrible," she said at last. "Even worse than when you were in the basement."

It was more of a security blanket, Prussia decided at last; she carried that knife around with her like Ludwig had carried around the stuffed eagle Gilbert had given him. He and that eagle had been inseparable. The thought made his smile widen, and he noticed with some pleasure that the motion did not make his lips crack open anymore; evidently his split lip had healed.

"Yeah, well, I'm getting better," he said, trying to seem confident. "You're looking good, I guess."

She smiled a little at that. "Did you want to see me?"

" 'Course I wanted to see you, Natalia."

Belarus looked skeptical. "Did you think I was Hungary?"

"Um." Prussia glanced at Ukraine, who looked concerned. "No, I didn't think you were Hungary." He decided on most of the truth. "Only I can't see really well, so I just saw your hair and I wasn't sure who you were."

"Did you want to see Hungary?"

"Natalia—" began Ukraine.

"I bet you like her," Belarus said conspiratorially. "Do you?"

"Uh, well, I mean . . . We were friends when we were little. Liz and I go way back."

She raised her eyebrows but dropped the subject. "Anyway, I'm glad you wanted to see me. I wanted to see you too. Have you spent lots of time with Brother since I last saw you?"

Prussia did not need the warning look Ukraine gave him to know to tread carefully. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "I've seen him. He brought me upstairs again, which is nice. And he comes in to . . . to see me pretty frequently." He was, in fact, not sure what to call Russia's silent visits. He very much wanted to change the subject.

"I've got to help Gilbert eat now, Natalia," Ukraine said nervously. "Do you want to stay?"

She shook her head. "I just wanted to look at him. He's all beat up." She beamed. "Brother is so strong and handsome, isn't he?"

She turned and left the room with Prussia gaping after her.

"Is she really in love with Ivan?" he asked Ukraine in a low voice, and she shrugged and nodded.

"It certainly seems like it. She's a bit . . . odd. She means well. Eat."

He obeyed. Ukraine continued to talk to him; her voice was such a relief after such a long silence. "Your face actually looks much better than it did before," she told him, touching the side of his bruised cheek lightly. "When we brought you up here, you were . . . well, you were a mess. I'm surprised you've healed up so well, and so fast."

Prussia had, in fact, not healed as quickly as he had expected. Her words made him wonder if she thought he would only heal at a human rate now. He scowled.

"I'm still a country, Kat."

"Well, yes, of course, just . . ." She stopped.

"_What_?"

"Well," she said, rather apologetically, "you're not quite as much of a country as you were, are you? I mean, you're not really Germany anymore, and . . ." She trailed off at the sight of the hurt expression on his face.

Offended, Prussia refused to eat anything else until she apologized and agreed that the German Democratic Republic was just as much of a country as Prussia and East Germany had been.

"Does this mean you want to be called the GDR now?"

"_No_," he snapped peevishly. "It's a stupid, demeaning name, and I much prefer Gilbert. But don't go saying my people aren't a real country anymore."

Ukraine sighed. "All right, dear, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. You're a perfectly good country." She paused. "Have you thought about what might happen if . . . if . . . you know, if there were ever to be German reunification?"

Prussia was taken aback. He had given up thinking about reunification; the wall had continued to stand, and almost daily he could feel the resistance of his people being continually beaten down. He knew those who continued to try and escape were being shot.

"I—I guess I don't know. Ludwig's still West Germany now . . . I guess I'd just be another part. We'd be together again."

He wished she had not brought this up. He was _not_ going to cry in front of her.

"Would you stop being a country?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I guess it wouldn't matter much. We were both around during World War 2."

"But that's before Prussia was officially dissolved. You just became something different."

"I don't know. I guess I'd let my little brother take over being all of Germany . . . a unified Germany." He smiled faintly. "He's been waiting long enough. I've been a country for a while. I've been an empire. Hell, I've been an order of Christian knights. I can retire for his sake."

Ukraine was watching him with something akin to bewilderment on her face. "I can't imagine just . . . doing that," she mused. "You would just give up all of your lands—even your countryhood—for your brother?"

"Yeah, well," Prussia said bitterly, "my little brother isn't much like your siblings, Kat, if you don't mind my saying so."

She sighed. "All right, dear. If you say so."

"Anyway, he'd do the same for me if I ever asked him—in a second. 'Cept I'd never ask him. As it is, I'll have to fight with him to get him to agree to be all of Germany, you know, if we ever . . ."

"I've got to go now, dear," Ukraine said quickly. She got to her feet and gathered up the bowl and spoon. "I'm sorry if I was getting a bit too personal there."

"Can Hungary come up sometime?"

Ukraine lowered her voice a little. "She said that she wanted to sneak up a little bit later on; I told her I'd accidentally leave the bottle of medicine and send her up for it. She'll only be a minute, though."

"_Really_?"

Ukraine winked at him and then left the room, holding the bowl and spoon. Prussia glanced at the bottle of medicine still on the nightstand and smirked.

It was only a few minutes before the door opened again and Hungary came running in—he was sure it was her this time. She ran straight to the bed and threw her arms around him, making him yelp in pain as she hit broken ribs. She quickly drew back, grabbing him by his shoulders to take a good look at him.

"Wow, you look even worse than when I saw you last," she said frankly. "Sorry about jolting your ribs, by the way, I heard they were broken. What else is broken?"

"Arm, wrist, I think. Maybe ankle; I can't tell, but it might just be wrenched. Not sure what else. Nose, probably."

"You idiot. Were you being unnecessarily antagonistic?"

He smirked. "Necessarily antagonistic."

Suddenly she smiled and, to his surprise, he saw tears in her eyes. She hugged him again, more gently this time. Prussia wished he could put his arms around her in return.

"God, I've missed you," she said. "The last time I saw you Russia was dragging you into the basement and I've been worried sick ever since. I ask every chance I get if I can come see you and this is the first opportunity I've gotten. It's been too long."

Prussia felt his throat tighten at the sight of her tears. Liz never cried. "I've missed you too," he admitted. "A lot."

Hungary glanced around and her eyes fell on the bottle of medicine. She grabbed it. "I've got to go," she said sadly. "I said I'd only be a minute and I ran as fast as I could to get here to buy myself a little more time. But I need to be back downstairs or I'll lose another opportunity to come and see you."

"Okay. Be safe, Liz."

"You too, moron. Don't go provoking people who can and will beat the shit out of you."

She left him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to come back again as soon as she could. Prussia watched her go, with the first real smile he'd had on his face in a long time.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_Here's a little more of the PruHun I promised to __**advidartist **and **Budgiebear23 **__earlier, with more to come, I promise! I've been looking for an opportunity to put it back in and here it is, finally. A lot of different things happened in this chapter, so I hope it wasn't too busy._

_A big thank you to for __**Budgiebear23, rookanga, Guest, takelo14, Tapion580**__ and __**KennKirk **__for reviewing the last chapter (wow! Six reviews on one chapter; I can't even tell you guys how much I love you right now), and also for the new reviews from **Little-Water** and **Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real** on previous chapters!_

_Favorite and follow if you enjoyed the story, and please review if you read it! Feedback is always exciting for me!_


	21. Chapter 21

Hungary was as good as her word. Over the next two weeks, she managed to slip in and see him almost daily, bringing him news he was sure he was not supposed to have; news about Ludwig, about his people, and about the problems Russia's people and his government were having. At other times she did nothing but sit with him quietly, enjoying his company in silence as he enjoyed hers. She made him laugh and scolded him when he was stupid.

She memorized Ukraine and Lithuania's schedule for coming in to see him, and made sure she was gone by the time they came in. Russia had continued to keep to himself and had not come in to see Prussia for nearly a week. His absence was nearly as unnerving as his presence, since Hungary told him that he was still in the house, but Prussia had begun to relax after several consecutive Russia-free days. He wondered if he had given up the battle, or if he was simply so busy with other things that he could not take the time. From what Hungary had told him, it certainly sounded like his people had only become more troublesome, and he wondered if this was what had kept Russia away.

One day, Belarus came in when they were sitting together.

Hungary had snuck away under the pretense of dusting the upstairs, and she was sitting on the bed with the dusting rag still in one hand and Prussia's hand in the other. For the first time, she had unbuckled the straps holding him down after requesting and receiving his promise that he would not try to leave the room, and he had stiffly pulled himself into a sitting position beside her. The risk of it had excited both of them, though Hungary had assured him that she knew Lithuania would not be coming in for several hours, and if it was Ukraine coming in, it would be even longer.

Belarus simply stood there for a few seconds, taking the scene in, and then she grinned and said to Prussia brightly, "See? I knew you liked her."

She turned and left without another word, without speaking to or even looking at Hungary.

An awkward silence followed her departure. Hungary looked confused for a moment. "What was that about?"

Prussia frowned. He did not like that Belarus now knew, but he pushed the concern away; after all, Natalia had always seemed to like him, and she had not minded seeing him and Hungary together, so there could not be much harm in her knowing.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't care much if you don't."

"All right." Hungary shrugged, then her brow furrowed with some anxiety. "Gilbert?"

He glanced down at her. "Yeah?"

"She isn't—you know, in love with you, is she?"

"No," Prussia said emphatically. The thought had, in fact, never crossed his mind, but once the idea was in his head it unnerved him; he knew perfectly well how scared Russia was of her, and she was definitely in love with him. "That is," he rejoined, "I certainly don't think so. She's all about her brother, isn't she?"

"I think so," said Hungary, reassured. "She asks him to marry her whenever she sees him. He's terrified of her, runs away when he sees her coming. To be honest, she scares me a little too. She's always carrying around that knife."

Prussia laughed. "I was thinking about it earlier and I think it's because it makes her feel more secure. Like Ludwig with that stuffed eagle I got him when he was little."

Hungary laughed too. She had such a pretty laugh; it had been so long since he'd last heard it. "I remember that! He was such a cute little kid. Oh, and he just _worshipped_ you. Wanted to grow up to be just like you. Remember when you taught him how to swordfight?"

"I was a pretty good trainer. I trained that America kid, too, when he was getting ready for his revolution against Arthur, and he turned out to be damn good. I take all the credit for that." He was silent for a moment, lost in memories, and then he smirked. "Remember when I taught _you_ to swordfight?"

"Remember when I beat you for the first time?" she shot back.

He rolled his eyes and gave a melodramatic sigh, pulling her closer against him. "I was just being chivalrous. I couldn't beat a weak woman."

"And I see your chivalry only kicked in after we'd been training for a few months and you'd kicked my ass I don't know how many times, right?"

"Well, naturally I had to keep you on your toes at first so you would continue learning, but then I thought you needed a confidence boost after all those many, _many _defeats, so I let you beat me."

She giggled. "You're such an asshole and I love you so much."

He put his unbroken arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him. "I can't stop thinking about Ludwig as a kid, though. What the heck happened to that sweet little kid?"

"Oh, he's still pretty sweet. He just tries to hide it."

"You were so mad when he got taller than you."

"Whatever, I can still beat his prettyboy blond ass any time I want to."

"Not with the injuries you've got now."

"Ha. A couple scratches can't keep the great Prussia down."_  
_

"Cocky bastard."

"Scolding harpy."

They leaned against each other happily and were silent for a few minutes.

"I'm thinking of running away," Hungary said abruptly, her tone serious.

Prussia turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. "You can just . . . you know . . . do that?"

She shrugged. "I guess I won't know until I try it, right? No offense, but he's not _expecting_ me to try and run away like he is you. There's no wall keeping me in."

"Hey," said Prussia, stung.

"I told you you were being an idiot antagonizing him, didn't I?" Hungary pointed out reasonably. "This is part of the reason why. That, and I don't like to see you get beaten up. Except by me."

"Psh. You could never defeat the awesome Prussia."

"I believe I _did_, on a few occasions, dearie." She smirked, then her tone became serious again. "Anyway, I really think I can do it, but I don't want to leave you behind. But I just wanted to tell you I was thinking about it. You know, if German reunification ever happens, then I want to get out too." She was silent for a long moment, then she squeezed his hand tightly. "What do you think?"

Prussia sighed and looked down at their clasped hands. Her hand was smooth and tanned and cool against his calloused, pale skin, still hot with fever.

"No," he said finally.

She looked startled and hurt. "No?" She pulled her hand out of his grasp, folding her arms in front of her chest stubbornly: a posture he had seen her strike many times before. "You want me to just _stay_ here?"

"What?" It was Prussia's turn to be hurt now. "No, no, that's not what I meant at all—_um Gottes Willen, _Liz, you think I'd tell you to do something like that? I mean I don't want you to wait for me."

Now she looked taken aback. "But—"

"No! That's stupid. If you can get out then get the hell out, I'm serious. I don't want you to stay here indefinitely if you've got a shot at escaping because you still think German reunification will happen someday. There's a wall there, you said so yourself. Nobody's going anywhere anytime soon."

She tensed for a moment, then relaxed suddenly and lay back against him, entwining her fingers with his again.

"Gilbert," she said softly, "I don't want you to be noble and chivalrous and self-sacrificing and all that shit. I want to wait for you."

He scowled. "Well, I don't want you to wait for me. If you could get away tomorrow then I'd want you to. Your people deserve it and so do you."

She hesitated at the mention of her people. "You're right," she acquiesced reluctantly, "but still, Gilbert . . ."

"Still what? It's not safe here, you know that. Speaking of not being safe here, aren't you supposed to be dusting or something? If it doesn't get finished . . ."

"It's finished, don't worry; I cleaned almost the entire upstairs last night since I knew I'd be asked to do it today, so I'd have time to spend with you."

"Oh." Prussia smiled in spite of himself. "Thank you."

"There's no need to thank me, Gil. It's every bit as much for me as it is for you. I've missed you so much. And I've been so, so afraid for you."

"Worry about yourself. I can take care of myself."

"So can I. Better than you can, evidently. I'm not the one with broken bones right now."

He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and gave her a tight hug. "See? My bones are doing just fine right now, thank you."

"Sure," she said sarcastically, returning the hug. "Because re-injuring yourself is worth proving a point. You just enjoy that hug."

"I will, damn it."

She sighed in affectionate exasperation, pulled her hand out of his grasp again, and wrapped both her arms around him. He pulled her close against him and lowered his head to kiss the top of her head. She smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned his head just in time so that she kissed him on the mouth instead.

She immediately buried both hands in his hair and used it to pull him close to her again.

"_Már annyira hiányoztá_l," she whispered against his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck tighter. "Oh, Gilbert, _már annyira hiányoztál._"

Prussia closed his eyes. She was so warm against his chest, holding him so tight; he did not care that it was hurting his broken ribs, she could have cracked them again for all he cared. She was shaking as if with sobs, and he found that there were tears in his own eyes as well which he blinked away rapidly.

Russia's cold voice spoke dryly from behind them.

"Pardon me, but I believe Hungary is supposed to be dusting."

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_I hope you guys still like the PruHun . . . My apologies for another cliffhanger ending, and for the shortness of this chapter, but I wanted to get it out soon. I hope it wasn't too much conversation and not enough action!_

_Thank you to **Budgiebear23, ****rookanga,** **Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real,** **tapion580, **and two** Guests** for reviewing the last chapter! You guys are great! Please keep on reviewing, it's such a great source of inspiration, and favorite/follow if you liked it!_

_I've all the sudden gotten a bunch more reviews and follows and favorites and it's very exciting for me, so once again, thank you, thank you, to everyone who's been so supportive and great. You are the BEST.  
_

**German translation  
um Gottes Willen** = for God's sake

**Hungarian translation  
Már annyira hiányoztál** = I've missed you so much


	22. Chapter 22

"Natalia has been looking for me for quite some time now," Russia said, pleased. "And for once it was worth my time to hear her out. She had mentioned before that you had a soft spot for the Héderváry girl, but this . . . well, this is much better than I had expected. I scarcely believed her when she told me that you had let him _loose_, Hungary. You know the rules perfectly well."

_Belarus. Of course._

She seemed to like him, but he had always known perfectly well that her first loyalty was to her brother. This was all his fault. He should have told Hungary to get out the instant Belarus appeared in the door.

Russia continued, the same delighted expression on his face. "And I see now that I have been going about this the wrong way entirely."

Hungary was already standing up, her feet firmly planted and her jaw set. She looked furious, just as she had once looked when Prussia had tried to bully Austria on her watch, and a lesser man than Russia would probably have turned tail and run then and there.

Prussia stood too, albeit unsteadily; he was well aware that his many injuries were still far from healed, but he wanted to get in front of Hungary, to stand between her and Russia, but when he tried to do so she shoved him backwards and stood in front of him instead, one arm flung out in front of his shoulders to try and keep him back.

She addressed Russia directly. "_Baszd meg_," she said in harsh Hungarian. "_Hagyd békén."_

"Liz, _stop_—"

"Don't you tell me what to do," Hungary said. Her voice was steely. "In case you didn't catch that, Ivan, fuck off and leave him alone."

Russia did not move, except to slap the pipe against his empty palm a few times. He was still grinning from ear to ear, as pleased as a cat having just caught a mouse, and his eyes were bright with anticipation.

"_Nyet_," he said. "I don't think I will."

She made a furious noise in the back of her throat, more angry than afraid; her fists were clenched. "If I had my frying pan right now, so help me . . ."

"But you do not have it right now, do you, _Vengriya?"_

She was as aware as he was that she was in an exceptionally vulnerable position, and that he was the one holding a lead pipe while she was simply standing in front of an invalid trying to shield him with her body, but Hungary had never been one to quail in the face of insurmountable odds.

"He hasn't done anything," she informed Russia tersely. "I was the one who took off the straps; he didn't even ask me to. I came up to see him on my own."

"And he did not tell you to leave? He knows the rules as well as you do."

"No," Prussia spoke up quickly, "I didn't ask her to leave. I encouraged her. It's my fault."

"You did—"

"No I didn't—"

"You told me—"

Russia simply waited patiently, still tapping the pipe gently against his hand, until Prussia and Hungary had both argued themselves to a standstill. Then he spoke up again.

"You're still . . . _delicate_," he said to Prussia, in a voice that sounded almost kind. "Litva tells me your injuries have not healed yet, and you are still in fragile condition."

"Fragile, my—" began Prussia, outraged, but Russia cut him off.

"And, as I have said, I realize now at last that I have been going about breaking you down entirely the wrong way. So I do not intend to hurt _you_ again unless you force me to."

He saw Hungary relax a little at these words, but tensed; he was fairly certain he knew where Russia was going with this and had noticed the slight emphasis the Soviet had placed on _you_.

Russia noted their opposing reactions and smiled.

"It is no wonder you were in no condition to reject her advances," he continued, still in the same kindly tone. "I am sure you are weak in mind as well as body. Look at you; you are still feverish, _nyet_? And your poor arm, and your wrist. Is your ankle broken as well?"

Prussia was silent, furious as he was. Hungary was still standing in front of him and he wanted even more to be able to switch their positions, especially now Russia had said he did not intend to hurt him. At the very least, it would slow him down. Hungary had both feet planted, however, and he knew perfectly well that when she struck that stance she would not move unless absolutely forced to.

Anyway, he was not in any kind of position to defend her, as much as he hated to admit it. Russia's words had been perfectly true, and hurt all the more because he knew it.

"Well," Russia sighed, "the situation will have to be remedied somehow, and I must make sure it does not happen again. Come here, please, GDR."

Prussia did not move. Hungary glanced back at him, almost fearfully now.

"Hungary," Russia addressed her, almost politely, "perhaps you could back me up. I assume he will listen to you, and I also assume it is in your interests to see that I do not need to beat him to make him behave, _da_?"

"Liz, for God's sake—"

"Stop it, Gil," said Hungary sharply. She turned to Russia, keeping her voice as steady and even as possible. "And you promise you won't hurt him?"

"_Da_," Russia rejoined sincerely. "I will not hurt him. That is, unless he tries to hurt me or struggle, in which case I will have no choice. I assume you can agree that is fair. Now, tell him to come over to me, please."

She nodded, her face white, and turned to Prussia. Her voice was pleading when she spoke.

"Gil," she said softly, "please, just do it, just cooperate this once. I don't want you to get hurt and if you do now then it'll be because of me. All of this shit is my fault anyway."

She had moved aside now and was no longer standing in front of him, but Russia had not made a move towards either of them. As they watched, he placed the pipe on the ground, then put one hand in his pocket and extended the other towards Prussia.

Prussia turned back to Hungary. "Liz," he began desperately. She shook her head.

"It's not your fault, Liz, I'm so sorry—"

"Gilbert. Go. Please."

He hesitated for another few long seconds, then gritted his teeth and stepped slowly and painfully towards Russia, seeing the tall nation's purple eyes light up as he did so.

Russia grabbed him by his unbroken wrist to pull him closer, then turned his arm over so his palm was facing up. This was his broken arm, and the motion made Prussia gasp. Then he pulled his other hand out of his pocket, something glinting in his closed fist.

It took a moment for Prussia to realize what it was: a syringe, just like the one Ukraine had used to give him the sedative when he had first arrived in the Soviet Union.

As soon as this revelation sunk in he tried to jerk his arm away, with no success; Russia's grip tightened at once and he twisted his grip ever so slightly, just enough to aggravate the slowly-healing break in the arm and send an arrow of agony down Prussia's arm. Prussia cursed, his face white with pain, and immediately stopped struggling; he could barely stand up already and knew that if he fell to the ground he had only a broken wrist to break his fall.

He turned his head to look at Hungary, who had clasped her hands together in front of her face. Her eyes were fixed on him and she looked nervous.

The second he looked away, Russia pushed the needle into his arm and depressed the syringe plunger.

Prussia turned back and pulled his arm away furiously; this time Russia let go, watching him with some amusement; he immediately staggered once he was standing on his own. Hungary moved forward to try and help him, but a warning look from Russia made her step back again.

The drug took effect almost immediately, and he was aware too late that his thrashing had only speeded its effects as he fell to the floor on his hands and knees, feeling pain shoot up his arm as he hit the ground hard.

He saw Russia reach to the ground and pick up his pipe again, saw him bring it down on Hungary, and heard her scream before he went unconscious altogether.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_Sorry for the wait and for the shortness of the chapter! Next one's going to be fairly short as well, but after that it'll get longer again. I'm just breaking it up like this to avoid excessive length and to make sure I can give you more reading material ASAP._

_I wonder if anyone was wondering if Belarus was secretly in love with Prussia . . . ? Nope, still very much with her brother, sorry to say, which is why she didn't stab Hungary with that knife of hers the first chance she got!_

_And here's the violence I think most of you have been hoping for, instead of more of that fluffy stuff!_

_Tell me what you think! These next chapters should be pretty exciting . . ._

_I want to thank **rookanga, Budgiebear23, Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real, tapion580, takelo14, Guest, **and **Derron116** for reviewing the last chapter (and thanks to **Derron116** for your review to chapter 10 as well!); you guys are wonderful, as always! Please keep reviewing if you read it, and favorite and/or follow if you enjoyed!_

**Hungarian translation (although I already kind of gave this to you):  
****Baszd meg **= fuck off  
**Hagyd békén **= Leave him alone

**Russian translation:  
Vengriya **= Hungary**  
Litva **= Lithuania (I've used this before but never translated it, my bad!)  
**nyet** = no  
**da** = yes


	23. Chapter 23

He regained consciousness still in his room, strapped down again. He was not injured any further, which he found mildly disconcerting; after so long in the Soviet Union, he was not used to coming to consciousness still in reasonably good health. Hungary was gone.

Ukraine was tending to him; she had been changing the blood-spotted bandages around his arm for clean ones, and her ministrations, albeit gentle ones, had been what woke him up. She did not give him any further information and ignored his desperate questions about Hungary.

"Just tell me if she's all right," he pleaded as Ukraine carefully wiped the blood from his arm and began winding white bandages around it again. "Just a yes or a no. Kat. I'm begging you."

She finished her work, gave him a pat on the shoulder and a pitying look, and left without a word. Prussia watched her go with growing panic.

The next few days passed in much the same vein. Ukraine continued to come in to bring him food daily: more than he had been given previously, and better quality. The gesture was almost kind, except she continued to remain utterly silent; when he tried to speak, she gave him a look both fearful and sympathetic and then went back to ignoring him.

Every day when the door opened he hoped that anyone else would be standing there; anyone else he could try to pump for information. Despite her kindness, Ukraine was not one to disobey orders.

But the Baltics never appeared, and he had not seen Poland since the cheerful blond nation had visited him in his basement cell; he could only hope that Estonia had been telling the truth and Feliks was really all right.

By the time a week had passed, he found himself thinking that Russia's presence might almost have been welcome; he could then have asked after Hungary. Russia would talk to him. He did not much even care what he said; the silence was beginning to drive him crazy. He guessed Ivan would enjoy his fear for her, but he might still have been able to convince him to relent and tell him something.

Another week passed.

By this time Prussia, with the quick healing capabilities of a nation, was nearly back to complete health. This meant that the straps, combined with the dull, unchanging schedule of every day, were starting to seriously irk him; he was more acutely aware that he was in good health but nowhere near his previous strength. He was desperate to move.

In addition, he was alone with his own thoughts, which was never a good thing. He moved from homesickness for Ludwig and for his home in Germany to guilt for those he'd hurt even while in the Soviet Union. So many people hurting because of him. Poland sobbing. Hungary screaming.

And the war . . . Memories of Stalingrad still gave him nightmares. He had heard it called the turning point of the war. 850,000 Axis soldiers killed for just that battle, a battle they had lost. Germans and Italians and Hungarians and Romanians and Croatians.

Once he would have accepted this as necessary, even if he had known they would lose. Some must die for the Reich. He would have died for Germany in an instant. He would have been proud to do so. It would have been a glorious death. Not anymore.

Eight hundred and fifty thousand. The number was staggering.

_And more than a million Soviets dead._

The thought made an arrogant smile spread across his face at first, a reminder of his previous power, and then he shuddered, smile abruptly fading.

He could remember the agony he and Ludwig had felt as so many died. Italy, too. And Hungary. All of them with soldiers dying in droves, _feeling_ their people die, sharing their despair.

And Russia and his Soviet Union, experiencing that same agony alone.

_Over one million Soviet casualties in just that battle._

_The Germans had lost about 5 million soldiers and about 7 million overall._ _How many Russians had died during the course of the war?_

He had heard various estimates of the military death toll, ranging from 9 million to 14 million.

Overall: between 22 and 30 million.

He had heard the numbers before, but all of the sudden they meant something. He would never have guessed he would find himself feeling guilty for the Axis's treatment of _Russia_, and yet all at once the full weight of it sank in. He could remember so vividly the _agony _of feeling his people dying, almost too much to bear; the horror of his utter helplessness to prevent the losses.

And the Soviet Union had lost nearly three times as many people over the course of the war.

He found himself shaking. He could not even imagine the pain. Even with the final victory, how could _any_ nation stand something like that?

_His boss made him send so many_, he tried to remind himself, _just like yours made you . . . _He did not want to think about it. He could not bear it.

The door opened—the same time as always—and Ukraine stood there, empty-handed this time. He could not meet her eyes. She had lost nearly seven million in the war, too, most of them civilian.

_My war, mine and Ludwig's._

_Our fault._

Ukraine spoke, the first time in two weeks he had heard anyone's voice. _How could she sound so kind, so forgiving?_

"Can you walk?" she asked softly.

Prussia glanced down at the straps holding him to the bed, but did not even think to make a snarky remark; his musings had shaken him too badly. "I don't know," he said. "Probably."

"Brother asked me to see if you could," Ukraine said tensely. "He said . . . I can let you get up." She bit her lip, her usual nervous habit. "He said . . . he said he thinks you know better than to try anything."

A chill went through Prussia. He could guess what this meant.

"Hungary—" he began.

She shook her head quickly, crossing the room as she did so to start loosening the straps around his wrists and ankles. Prussia lay still, resisting the urge to move as soon as he possibly could. "Brother said I should just tell you that—that she's all right for now."

"For now?"

"That's all, all right?" Ukraine said, her voice almost panicky. "Now, try to stand, dear. You might be a little weak, you haven't used your muscles in a while."

Prussia obeyed wordlessly, pulling himself slowly into a sitting position with his feet on the floor, then carefully rising to his feet. His knees buckled immediately when he tried to stand and he was forced to grab at Ukraine for support; she carefully pulled one of his arms around her shoulder and helped him to take a few shaky steps. His legs felt like water and the blood burned as it returned to the limbs which had been motionless for so long, but it was not long before he had gotten used to the motions once again.

Ukraine helped him for several minutes, then guided him back to the bed and let him sit down. He was grateful for the respite, despite being disgusted at his own weakness. He was exhausted and found it difficult to catch his breath, and there was a sharp cramping pain in his side.

"Good," she said encouragingly. "You're doing very well, dear."

Prussia looked up at her haggardly. "_Well_? Really?"

"Really, honey. Very well. In fact, I remember when Lithuania . . ." She stopped, hesitated, then continued more carefully, "Well, anyway, dear, your recovery time is better than most, given what you've been recovering from."

Prussia sighed and nodded, staring down at his hands. The shaking was returning to them, but he could not tell whether it was for physical or psychological reasons. The line was beginning to blur.

She rose to her feet and smiled down at him. He forced himself to look up, to meet her eyes. There was no condemnation in them, no hatred. Its absence, for some reason, hurt even worse than its presence would have. Despising would have been easier to deal with; it would have made more sense.

He was reminded forcibly of Poland's cheerful demeanor and the help he had given him, despite the risks . . . despite the consequences . . .

Ukraine spoke again. Prussia jumped a little, jerked out his reverie.

"I'm not going to restrain you again, dear," she informed him, clasping her hands in front of her happily. "Ivan said I didn't have to. So I'm just going to lock the door. My brother wants to come in and see you in a bit . . . He said there's something he wants to show you. Until then, just practice walking around a bit, all right? You'll get used to it soon."

"Thanks, Kat," said Prussia gratefully, trying to quell the rising fear at the thought of Russia. "I appreciate it."

She beamed at him affectionately. "Of course, Gilbert, dear. Good-bye, now."

She exited the room, leaving him sitting on the bed alone. If he looked down at his wrists, he could see a red mark running around them from the pressure of the straps; the gashes where the metal shackles had bit deeply into his skin had all but healed, leaving only faint scarring.

He made himself rise to his feet again and take another few steps, unguided this time. The floor seemed to be churning beneath his feet. He found his boots lying beside the bed and laced them on tightly; they seemed to help stabilize him and he took another five steps, a little more confidently now.

It was not enough to be able to get away, if he needed to do so, but at the very least he was no longer completely helpless. The feeling was a good one.

He heard the rustling of a key at the lock and turned around as Russia pushed open the door—the first time in two weeks that Prussia had seen anyone but Ukraine.

Prussia stared at him with new eyes, unable to hate him quite as much as he had before. Just the sight of Russia had caused a fresh, almost overwhelming wave of guilt to wash over him. _What had Ivan Braginsky suffered at the hands of the Axis Powers?_

Russia, who had not moved from the doorway, simply smiled and beckoned to him, oblivious to Prussia's sudden moral struggles. Prussia stepped forward uncertainly, expecting to be knocked down, or at least for his hands to be tied behind his back, but Russia did not touch him.

Startled, Prussia realized he was not even holding his pipe.

"Well, _idem_, _malyutka_," Russia said encouragingly. Prussia stared at him mistrustfully, and then Russia turned back and opened the door, holding it for Prussia to pass through first. He did so, slowly, glancing behind him several times. Once he had entered the hallway Russia closed the door again and led the way.

It was the same path he had walked once before, but he made sure to take it in more carefully now. He had really not missed very much the first time; the cold gray walls, the plain bigness of everything. But at least it was something different from the four walls he had seen so many times before.

His heart began to beat faster as they descended first one flight of stairs, then another. He did not particularly want to stall—he had no reason to—but did want to try and see if he could catch sight of Hungary or Poland in any of the many rooms they passed, to see if they were all right. At one point he thought he caught sight of movement in one of the rooms and tried to drag his feet to see who it was, but doing so caught him only a quick glimpse of Estonia and Latvia, who had been working together.

Both quickly disappeared out of sight as soon as they glimpsed Russia, and he could see no one else in the room once they had gone.

As they had once before, they passed through the kitchen. Hungary was not there, as he had hoped, and neither was Poland. Only Ukraine stood at one of the counters, bent over slightly and kneading bread. She did not look up when they passed and he knew better than to try to speak to her.

They went down one more flight of stairs and he felt the familiar chill in the air as the temperature dropped; Prussia was suddenly extremely grateful for the thin shirt he was wearing, more than he'd had last time.

Russia seemed to be in a good mood. He hoped this meant he would not be chained when he was returned to his cell. If not, then it would be almost better circumstances than he'd had in his room; the ability to move was worth enduring a great deal of cold. Maybe, he thought eagerly, he could finally begin exercising again. It would warm him up _and _strengthen him.

This idea cheered him up tremendously and he unconsciously quickened his pace. Russia noticed this and gave him a quizzical look, but seemed to decide against saying anything and merely sped up to match him.

At long last, they descended the last cold, dark flight of steps to the basement. Prussia could not help but notice, with a sudden dampening of his spirits, that there was still a smear of blood on the floor at the foot of the stairs where he had fallen the last time. Russia noticed it as well and a faint smile curled his lips.

"Things are much easier when you cooperate, _vidite_, GDR?" he remarked, almost casually nodding towards the bloodstain on the floor.

Prussia bit back an angry reply and Russia's smile widened as he halted in front of Prussia's old cell and reached into his pocket for the ring of keys. He turned to Prussia before unlocking the door. "Look at you, being quiet when you ought to, being obedient. You _have_ been learning, haven't you?" He laughed; almost a childish, happy laugh, rather than malicious. The sound gave Prussia chills. "I am pleased with your progress. I hope you will continue to impress me."

Prussia, goaded to retort, opened his mouth, and Russia held up one gloved hand to silence him, glancing down at the keyring to choose the correct key and then looking back up once he had located it.

"Before you say anything, little one," he said mildly, "I think it may be in your best interests—perhaps more so than usual—to continue to impress me. Do you understand?"

Prussia raised his eyebrows, confused. "What?"

Now it was Russia's turn to look slightly taken aback, then his smile returned, perhaps even wider than before. He looked delighted, like a child with a new toy. "Why, I do not think you _do_ understand, GDR."

Exasperated, Prussia forced himself not to roll his eyes; it was not like Russia to be cryptic and it was beginning to seriously irritate him. He crossed his arms instead, realized that doing so made him feel like a bitchy teenager, and quickly uncrossed them again. "Understand _what_?" he snapped.

"Well," Russia said, seeming to ignore the rudeness as he placed the key into the lock and turned it, infuriatingly deliberately. "Perhaps it will be easier if I show you."

The lock clicked and Russia placed a heavy hand on the door and pushed it all the way open with a long, slow creaking sound, then gestured courteously with one hand for Prussia to go inside.

Prussia did not move a muscle. He was staring into the cell.

There, manacled to the same wall to which he had been chained so many times, head hanging limply and arms scraped and bruised, was Hungary.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_Aaah, sorry this one took so long to get to all of you lovely patient readers! Lots of other stuff came up and I just forgot for a bit. Don't worry, I'll get back into it and hope to not make you wait so long for a chapter again! Thanks to all of you for sticking with me!_

_War flashbacks, lots of guilt, more historical stuff, and then another tense ending. I hope this chapter doesn't feel too much like filler but I think it was necessary, in particular the historical bits. I'm sorry that they made this chapter a lot heavier and more serious, but I wanted to make sure I understood what I was writing and my readers understood what they were reading._

_Thanks so much to **Budgiebear23, UltraWolfie, MusicalsAndAnime, Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real, Guest, Derron116,**_ _and **ILoveDean **for their reviews of chapter 22, as well as **Blonde Sunflower lover**_ _and_ _**Minki333**_ _for reviewing earlier chapters!_ _Please continue to review if you read it, and favorite/follow if you're enjoying it._

_**Ultrawolfie**, thank you for your suggestion to add in some of Russia's feelings of justification, especially Stalingrad; I think it works very well and I hope it adds another dimension to Russia's character._

_The number of deaths are for the Soviet Union during the war, not purely for Russia, but obviously that was mostly Russian. I looked these numbers up and was absolutely horrified at the sheer magnitude. Between 60 and 85 million died in World War II (which was apparently about 2.5 percent of the world population, to make it even more staggering) and as many as half of those deaths were Soviet. That's horrific._

___I was genuinely shaken to read the shocking statistics. _I know there is NO way I can do justice to that kind of tragedy, but I will strive to treat it with the greatest respect and tact and I hope I am doing an acceptable job and that you all know I do not take this kind of thing lightly.

**Russian translation:  
idem = **come on/come along  
**malyutka =** little one  
**vidite** = you see?


	24. Chapter 24

She raised her head when she heard the door open and smiled faintly when she met Prussia's horrified eyes.

"Hi, Gilbert," she said.

Prussia had crossed the room and knelt down in front of her in seconds, examining the damage. She was in bad shape, though, after a quick assessment, he realized she was not as bad as he had initially feared. Her long brunette hair was matted and tangled and she had a fresh bruise on the side of her face, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

Russia remained standing by the door, watching them with a clinical kind of interest. He said nothing until Prussia turned back to him, outraged.

"You can't do this to _her_, bastard! She hasn't done anything to you!"

"Hardly true," Russia observed. "Her people killed their fair share of mine in the war, you know. And since she has come to my house she has disobeyed me blatantly and showed little respect for my authority; most recently letting you free and sneaking up to see you against my express wishes."

"I don't particularly regret it," Hungary snapped, and he was relieved to hear the liveliness still in her voice. "I'd do it again."

"Next time I'd tell you to get the hell out," Prussia told her, trying to smile, and she grinned weakly back.

"You've never been able to tell me what to do, Gilbert."

"However," Russia put in, a little more loudly this time, as if irritated that his two captives were carrying on a conversation in front of him without him, "that is not why she is here. Ordinarily I would simply beat her for that kind of disobedience. For her faults, Hungary is, at the very least, more docile than you have been, my dear GDR, and I can appreciate that in a satellite."

"Then let her—"

"As I have said," continued Russia patiently, ignoring him, "she is not here as punishment for her own misdeeds. I have come to the conclusion that you will continue to be unmanageable until I take action elsewhere, and I see that you care for Hungary to perhaps an unwise degree."

Understanding dawned suddenly on Prussia and he was on his feet in an instant, standing in front of her—protecting her as he had been unable to the last time. "No! God damn it, don't you dare hurt her!"

"Gilbert," came Hungary's voice from behind him, soft and reasonable; she sounded like she was trying to calm him down. "I'm not exactly fragile. I'll be fine."

Russia laughed. "You did not last for very long, did you, Hungary?" His voice held the same mocking affection he used when speaking to Prussia; the tone gave Prussia chills, even more so when directed at someone else. "It was only a few days before you surrendered, before you begged me to let you out. I remember your screaming. Do you remember?"

Her face reddened, almost as if with shame, but her voice was level when she responded. "Yes," she said carefully. "And I advised Prussia to do the same a few times, for his own good, although I understand his reasons not to."

She tried to smile at Prussia, who could not return the gesture; he was standing frozen, numb, unable to even move. He could not have named the emotions running through him, could not have said whether it was fear or hatred or anger or grief or some horrible mixture of all of them.

"Even strong nations break down eventually," Russia continued. "Hungary; Lithuania; the rest of my family. So perhaps your stubbornness has nothing to do with strength, GDR. Perhaps it is only stupidity."

Prussia's eyes followed him as he took a few steps away from the door and picked up his pipe, which Prussia now noticed for the first time had been left leaning against the wall a little ways away. He did not move, and remained standing in front of her.

Russia returned to his place at the door, still a safe distance from Prussia and Hungary; he did not speak for a few minutes, but at last said with a sigh, "You know perfectly well what I want, little GDR, and what I will do to get it. I have said I do not intend to hurt you again unless I have to, and I believe I no longer have to. Please get out of the way, you are beginning to irritate me standing there."

Prussia did not move. Russia made a small, exasperated noise and reached for his wrist, holding it in a viselike, unbreakable grip. He jerked Prussia's arm downwards, making the smaller nation fall hard to his knees, then, once he was off-balance, dragged him swiftly to the adjacent wall and locked one of the manacles around his wrist, far enough away that he could not interfere.

"Now," he said, businesslike, "for the sake of formality, I suppose I ought to tell you what I want from you, _da_, GDR? As I have told you before, I want your official surrender, which you refused to give me in Berlin, which you have continued to withhold despite all I have done. So you force me to take roundabout measures like this."

Prussia tugged futilely at the chain, without making any headway; the cold metal simply dug further into his wrist, rubbing against the mostly-healed scars where they had once cut into his skin.

"So," Russia went on, "I will give you another chance, and then I will have to hurt Hungary. Perhaps I am wrong and this will be as futile as my other methods have; you seem to have had few qualms about forcing me to punish Poland for your own ends, for example. But I admit, little one, I am running out of ideas."

These words cut like a knife. Prussia closed his eyes, feeling the shaking return to his limbs, hearing once again Poland's sobbing in his head, seeing the usually happy green-eyed face drain of all cheer and twist in terror.

"Well?" Russia prompted, almost cheerfully.

A long moment passed in which Prussia looked from Hungary to Russia and then back. She was waiting, smiling a little at him. "I'll be fine," she repeated again. "Don't do anything you don't want to do."

Prussia opened his mouth and closed it again, struggling fiercely with himself. He turned back to Russia again and could not find words to speak.

Russia heaved an irritated sigh, then abruptly swung the metal pipe at Hungary's head. She gave a sharp cry, seemingly more of anger than pain, as the hard metal connected with the side of her skull. The edge of the pipe left a jagged wound across her temple and blood began to drip down the side of her face.

"No!" Prussia cried. He had instinctually tried to lunge forward, the movement immediately arrested by the chain. He pulled again with new desperation at his bonds—he had gotten so much thinner; maybe his wrist could slip out of the manacle . . . Russia's face darkened and he swung at Prussia, with his fist rather than the pipe, sending him sprawling backwards against the wall. Then he turned back to Hungary and raised the pipe again. She flinched away and closed her eyes, bracing herself for the blow.

Russia turned his head and looked at Prussia again, who was painfully trying to pick himself off the floor. "Do not come any closer," he said softly. "Go back and sit against the wall or I will hit her again. I assume you do not want that to happen."

Prussia immediately obeyed and Russia nodded, pleased.

"Good. Now, as I have said already, you know perfectly well what I want from you. I want your surrender. It has been far too long that you have stayed in my house as a guest, accepted the bed and the food and the care I give to you without giving me anything in return. Do you understand?"

Prussia did not move. Something very near to despair was threatening to overwhelm him and his vision seemed to be blurring around the edges. He pulled himself together with a tremendous effort and forced himself to meet Russia's eyes and nod slowly. He could not find words.

"Do you have anything to say?"

Prussia stared at the ground. He could feel heat rising in his face; the shame of it, of being forced to give in this way—and yet he knew perfectly well that he could not allow anyone else to suffer on his behalf.

"I—" he began in a strangled voice, and then stopped. "I . . ."

Russia lowered the pipe, which he had been holding raised above his head in preparation for a blow. Hungary, whose entire body had been tensed in anticipation, now relaxed slightly. Her green eyes, which had been fixed watchfully on Russia, now shifted to Prussia. He could read pity there, and—_apology_?

No. She was not allowed to feel like this was her fault. And she was not allowed to hurt any further on his behalf. Not when he could prevent it.

He cleared his throat and spoke again, trying to put strength into his words; he would not show weakness now.

"I surrender," he said, the words bitter on his tongue.

Russia's face immediately split into a smile: a wide, genuine smile, of sincere happiness. "Good," he beamed. _"Vchistuyu_!" His voice sobered momentarily, though his delighted expression remained. "I regret that I had to get your surrender in such an unorthodox way," he sighed, "but I suppose it cannot be helped; really, you left me no other choice."

He dug around in his pocket for the keyring, found the right one, and unlocked the shackle around Prussia's wrist, seizing his hand—although Prussia immediately tried to jerk his hand away—and helping him to rise unsteadily to his feet.

"Well, come upstairs again, GDR, my _malyutka_," he told him enthusiastically. "You are part of the family now, and family must be treated better than prisoners."

Prussia crossed the room to Hungary the moment he was released, and paid no attention to this. The liveliness seemed to have faded out of her. The wound in her temple must have been deeper than he had initially thought; it was still bleeding, staining the shoulder of her dress a dark red, and her face was pale. Her head was beginning to slump down against her chest, though she still met his eyes when he knelt down in front of her, scarcely daring to touch her.

From next to the door, Russia glanced at Hungary and shrugged, almost nonchalantly. "Your little Hungary will stay down here for a few more days to think about what she's done," he said, paying no attention to Prussia's aghast noise of protest at this. "She must have _some_ punishment for untying you, after all. But you have my word I won't hurt her again. I will send down Ukraine to take care of that scratch on her head."

Hungary raised her head again weakly. Her face was covered in blood now, but she still managed to smile at him once more, encouragingly.

"_Szeretlek_, Gil," she said softly. "_Vizlát_. I'll see you soon, all right?"

Prussia remained kneeling numbly in front of her until Russia pulled him to his feet and led him from the room and locked the door behind them.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_Well. It finally happened. What some of you were dreading and some of you were hoping for. I hope some of you don't hate me now..._

_I had to make sure I still hurt Gilbert a little; don't worry, that's not going anywhere, it's just going to be different._

_Thank you to **rookanga, Ultrawolfie, Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real, Sirius2013, Derron116 **__and __**tapion580**__ for reviewing the last chapter! Please favorite and follow if you enjoyed the story, and review if you read it; I love the feedback._

**Russian translation:  
malyutka moy** = my little one  
**Vchistuyu!** = finally!

**Hungarian translation:  
Szeretlek **= I love you  
**Viszlát** = good-bye


	25. Chapter 25

"I knew you could be taught to behave," Russia told him happily as he led him back upstairs with a new spring in his step, an almost upbeat air which grated on Prussia's nerves. "I only regret it took so long. I am sure before long you will wonder why you were so stubborn. I am happy to have you as part of my family, you know. I will—"

"When are you going to let her out?" interrupted Prussia sharply. He was not in the mood to listen to this, and already he was being assailed with a storm of different emotions. Guilt; he blamed himself for Hungary being hurt at all, and simultaneously he felt as though he had betrayed everything he had been fighting for. Anger; how dare Russia use Hungary to get to him, how dare he hurt her—that was entirely unjust; he was not acting honorably. Concern; he was simply allowing himself to be led away from one of the people he cared about most, and she was hurt, and there was nothing he could do about it. Shame; he had held out for so long, and now it seemed as though he had failed himself and betrayed his people.

Russia shrugged as he continued up the stairs. "A few days, I suppose. I want you to settle into your home before I do; I don't want you misbehaving any further, and clearly she is a bad influence on you."

Prussia stopped on the stairs, feeling almost childish as he did so, but he could think of nothing else to do. Russia, a few steps ahead of him, stopped as well and turned around to look at him inquisitively.

"I don't want to settle into your damn house," he said, resisting the urge to use German lest Russia take it out on Hungary again. "And I don't want to obey you. Let her go or I'm not going to cooperate with you." He hated how weak his words sounded, how pathetic; he sounded like a little boy trying to argue for a later bedtime, not a captive nation fighting for the condition of another nation. Russia did not look impressed.

"You are not, nor have you ever been, in a position to negotiate, GDR," he said, frowning a little; not with anger this time, merely with confusion, as if he could not comprehend such forwardness. "You have no power here; you never have. And you know perfectly well that you will cooperate with me."

"You said you wouldn't hurt her again," Prussia shot back. "I've got your word for that."

Russia's face fell slightly, but he quickly rallied. "I will let her out soon," he promised. "Until then, you will behave, or you will merely extend her sentence. Do you understand?"

Prussia nodded reluctantly. "Soon?"

"A few days; it depends," Russia said cryptically, and would not say anything more until they had reached the top of the stairs. Then his voice took on a friendlier tone as he began to show Prussia around the house.

"I think I do not need to show you around the basement, _da_?" he said, with a note of amusement in his voice that made Prussia's blood boil. "However, there is lots more to your home than you have seen before, and I think you will like it. It is a very beautiful house, you know."

"Yeah, I'm sure," snapped Prussia. The seeming immunity to his tone that Russia appeared to have gained was angering him as much as the larger nation's words; he hated not being able to get to him, to even irritate him, even if irritating him meant that he would get hurt. He had never been able to properly fight back, but he had, at the very least, had his words; and now these weapons too seemed to have been disarmed.

"It's true," Russia confirmed pleasantly. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, waving his arms around. "You have been through the kitchens, I think, but I will show them to you again."

Prussia was trying to ignore him, to shut out the sights around him. He could remember being thrown to the ground there, knew where blood would have had to be mopped up from the wooden floor, could hear Hungary's cry of dismay—she had been standing just over there. Vaguely, he heard Russia's voice speaking, but it did not matter much what he was saying now.

He clenched his fists, pulled himself together with a great effort; he simply could not afford to fall to pieces every time he encountered something associated with bad memories. He supposed that, now he would be able to move around the house more freely, it would only a be a matter of time before the rest of the house had bad memories associated with it as well, and he had better learn to deal with it now.

"There is not much else on this floor," Russia said as he led the way towards another set of stairs; Prussia followed him in stony silence. "The Baltics sleep down here; that is all. The rest of the bedrooms are on the top floor. The next floor is far more interesting."

Prussia perked up in spite of himself when he saw the next floor; he had never gotten farther than the stairs, since the staircases were arranged in such a way that there was no need to walk through the house to get from one to the other; one could simply descend all the way down, from the top floor to the basement. This floor was far more brightly lit than the lower one, and was the first place he had seen that did seem a little more like home.

They entered the dining room first; a long table was laid out and there was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. This sight gave Prussia a pang; the dining room in his own home in Germany had had a chandelier in the ceiling as well. The room could almost have been called beautiful. The length of the table unnerved him; he did not like to be reminded of how many other nations were in the same position as himself, how big the Soviet "family" really was.

Russia gave him a few minutes to look around and then led him into the next room, the living room, which Prussia looked around more dispassionately; this, at least, had nothing to remind him of home. It was not as beautiful as the dining room had been, and did not look anywhere near so comfortable as the living room in his German home. There, everything had been soft and slightly worn out, and the chairs would have half-read books with bookmarks in them on them, laid aside for later, and the couch would usually have at least one dog curled up sleeping on it and everything would be slightly covered with dog hair despite Ludwig's obsessive vacuuming to try and prevent that.

Thinking of this made him even more homesick, and then all of the sudden he wished that Russia had a dog. Even a Russian dog would be far better company than any of the nations in that house.

"It's nothing special," he told Russia savagely, and Russia merely shrugged off the criticism.

"Perhaps not," he agreed good-naturedly. "I am not especially fond of it myself. I am sorry you do not like it, little GDR, but I have saved my favorite room for last. I think you will like it as well."

Prussia followed after him, immediately deciding that he would have to hate this room, if only so that he would not share an opinion with Russia, but his resolve faltered right away as soon as he saw the room. It was a library: lit warmly, with high wooden bookshelves lining all of the walls, all of them filled with books up to the top. Beautiful books, too, with leather bindings and gold writing on the spines; some of them old and worn and others looking almost brand-new.

He could not read the Russian titles, but decided rather reluctantly that it might be worth learning just to be able to take advantage of such a library. It was magnificent, though he admitted this to himself only grudgingly and would never have vocalized such an opinion to Russia._**  
**_

He had not had a library in his home; all of the bookshelves were in the living room. Still, while none of his bookshelves at home matched, at least one of them was the same color of wood as these bookshelves.

He did not like this at all; did not like the faint reminders of home, just similar enough to make him more homesick than he had been in a long time, and yet different enough that he could not pretend it was really his home, different enough to be uncomfortable.

Russia stood in the doorway, watching Prussia's reaction with some pride; he seemed to have caught his initial admiration and missed the later homesickness that was now threatening to overwhelm his prisoner with misery.

"See?" he said, pleased. "I thought you would like it. Now you see all you have been missing out on with your stubbornness, _malyutka_. Come along now; the top floor is the bedrooms, and you know where you are to sleep, _da_?"

He left the door open when he left.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_First of all, thank you to **hanamiyoko1, rookanga, takelo14, tapion580 , Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real, **and **MusicalsAndAnime** for reviewing the last chapter! And sorry this one is shortish, the next one should be a bit longer and, hopefully, a bit more interesting as well; this one is more of a transition than anything else._

_Second: I'm afraid a lot of you are mad at me after the last chapter . . . Sorry! I promise you'll like the next chapters a bit more, and don't worry, there's still going to be violence. I thought a lot about what I wanted to happen and I'm still not positive I made the right choice, but here's my justification:_

_He DID start out as a group of Christian knights. There's going to be a lot of chivalry there, and he would have felt protective of any woman; really, of anyone weaker than himself. And honestly, I really didn't want his protectiveness of her to be a romantic thing; I like to think Prussia would absolutely take a hit for any of his friends as well. I added the pairing because I did want Russia to see plainly that he could use her to get to him; I think eventually he would have realized that any of the others might have worked as well, but Hungary was the obvious choice._

_Also, in the Soviet Union the families of those who spoke out against the government were often harmed, rather than the dissenters themselves, to keep the people in line. So in a way you could look at that as a historical method of dealing with difficult people._

_Speaking of which, for those of you who asked, no, there's not going to be any sex, and I don't want this to be a PruHun fanfiction, so, to those of you who didn't like it, don't worry; and to those of you who did, sorry, and they're still my OTP so maybe I'll write a fic for them later. But it won't be this one. I want to keep this one dark, not romantic or fluffy._

_Anyway, thank you all for continuing to stay with me, and I hope you still like the story! If you're a new reader please favorite or follow if you enjoyed the story, and all of you please review if you read it! I love the feedback!_


	26. Chapter 26

Prussia sat on the bed, feeling numb all over. He could feel his hands shaking again, and clenched them angrily into fists to force them to be still. How much time had he spent in this fucking room, tied down and unable to move, and wished to be freed to move around, to exercise, to do anything? And now he could not even bring himself to stand up.

He drew a deep breath, angry at himself once again for his weakness. He needed something to do, anything. He could not bear to see Russia again if he did not have to, but there were others in the house too; he could find Ukraine, ask Lithuania for news . . . He guessed Estonia and Latvia would be avoiding him, as they seemed to avoid everyone as much as they could, and he hated the idea of talking to Belarus again after her betrayal.

_Poland_. That was who he needed to find, to make sure he was all right; the last nation who had been hurt because of his disobedience.

He got to his feet again with a new surge of energy, glad to have a mission, and left the room; just _leaving_, being able to move around like this unimpeded, unnerved him. He initially found it exhilarating but then remembered the reason he was able to do so, which immediately dampened his spirits.

He left the room and made his way down the hallway, unsure of where he should be going. He had no idea where to find Poland; where to find any of the other nations, for that matter, or how to avoid them if he wanted to. There was a very good chance he would run into Russia, or Belarus. Ordinarily the risk would have given him a thrill; now it just depressed him.

_Another sign of weakness. You can't even appreciate danger anymore. What's wrong with you?_

Prussia forced these thoughts from his mind as he descended the staircase; allowing himself to become angsty and depressed was definitely weakness as well.

He caught sight of someone and called out, but as soon as he got a bit closer he realized it was Lithuania. The Baltic smiled at him rather weakly and directed him to the library when he asked after Poland.

Poland was sitting in one of the chairs, his feet tucked up beneath him and one of the books in his hand; he seemed to be drawing in it. He looked up as soon as he heard someone at the door, but unlike the Baltics, who always jumped and looked terrified when they heard footsteps, Poland looked relatively cheerful when he raised his head, and his expression brightened even more when he saw that it was Prussia.

"Hi, bro!" he said cheerfully, waving a hand with a pencil in it; he was _definitely _drawing in the book. "What's up?"

Prussia, feeling immediately better at the sight of the other nation in good condition and spirits, crossed the room and settled himself into another one of the chairs, leaning over to get a good look at what he was drawing. He was sketching a herd of tiny, carefully detailed ponies in the white margins at the edge of the page. Prussia was surprised to discover that he was a fairly good artist.

"You like them?" Poland asked, grinning. "These are all my ponies in real life; like, I draw them so I won't forget about them, you know? I have to remember them until I get back to them."

He was still so hopeful. The realization gave Prussia a small confidence boost; there was no reason to give up if Poland, who had been through so much, was still optimistic about the future. Granted, Prussia was not the most optimistic by nature, but Poland's attitude was quite the role model.

"Yeah, I like them," he agreed. "Those are really good."

Poland beamed proudly as he tore the page out of the book, making Prussia wince—he hated to see books damaged—then folded it up, put it into his pocket, and flipped pages until he found the end of a chapter, where there was nearly half a page of white space. "Do you have any animals at home?"

Prussia nodded. "My brother and I kept three dogs. Blackie, Aster and Berlitz. And I've got a chick, Gilbird."

"_Gilbird_?" Poland cackled, looking up from his drawing.

"I named him when I was little, okay?" said Prussia defensively, feeling himself redden. "I thought it was really clever at the time."

Poland raised his pencil to the white space on the page and made himself slightly more comfortable on the chair, then leaned towards Prussia. "Tell me about them," he said. "I'll draw them for you."

"What?" said Prussia, surprised; he had anticipated that Poland would be angry at him, or at least more distant than usual, and had certainly not expected to be offered a favor. Poland simply waited, pencil hovering over the paper expectantly, until Prussia, struggling to conjure up their memories in his mind, began hesitantly, "Well . . . Blackie's a German Shepherd. He's pretty big, and he's brownish and gray and black. His head's mostly gray, with a white stripe down his nose. Aster's a little black dachshund. She's got pointy ears." He smiled in spite of himself. "She used to like to be carried around, and she was little enough that we didn't mind. Berlitz is a golden retriever. He's basically gold all over and his face always looks like he's grinning. His tongue's usually hanging out."

" 'Kay," said Poland, drawing busily. "And Gilbird?"

"He's just a fat little yellow chick. Basically no distinguishing features. He's got a pointy little beak and black eyes."

Poland sketched in silence for a few minutes while Prussia sat watching him, then tore out the page and handed it to him, first signing _Feliks Łukasiewicz_ with a flourish at the bottom. "That's for you," he said.

Prussia took the drawing with both hands, almost reverently. The likenesses were startlingly accurate, down to that stupid-looking grin Berlitz always had on his face, and they sent a pang of nostalgia through him. He had no idea how long it had been since he had seen the dogs or his little bird, and seeing such an accurate representation of them was almost painful.

"Thank you," he murmured, running a hand over the pencil marks lightly, careful not to smudge the work. "Feliks, this is awesome."

Poland puffed himself up, self-satisfied. "You're welcome," he said, delighted at the compliment. "It's just, you know, how I remember, and I bet you like to remember, right? It's like, so you don't lose it."

Prussia gave a strained smile as he carefully folded the drawing up and tucked it into his pocket, knowing as he did so that he would be taking it out and looking at it again many times. He wanted to thank Poland again but could not think of any more words; none that would not simply seem empty.

Poland drew his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, leaning forward to rest his head on his knees and staring at Prussia. "Do you do anything like that? Like, to remember the past?"

"Yeah." Prussia nodded. "Well, not anymore—I guess I really can't—but I used to keep a journal. I had a lot of journals, actually; I kept them since I was a little kid. I'd write down everything I did, all of my victories, and everything embarrassing other people did so that I could use it against them later." He looked at the ground, suddenly wondering if all of those journals he had kept were still in his room. Probably Ludwig had written about them in one of his letters—one of the letters which had now been burned. "Anyway," he said quickly, changing the subject, "I wanted to find you to make sure you were okay—and to thank you—and to apologize. If you got hurt, it's all my fault."

Poland raised his eyebrows, looking a little taken aback at the quick turn the conversation had taken, but he quickly rallied and when he spoke his voice was his usual cheerful tone once more. "Yeah, broski, I'm fine. Russia can't do _me_ any damage. He wasn't that hard on me. I was worried about you."

"About _me_?"

"I can take care of myself," said Poland defensively. "And like, remember what you looked like then? Pretty awful. You obviously couldn't take care of yourself, right?"

Prussia scowled. "I was just fine."

"Sure, yeah."

He looked up to find Poland smirking at him, but not maliciously, and smiled rather sheepishly.

"You worry too much about the rest of us," Poland informed him. "We've all got used to this; we know how to, like, deal with him."

Prussia bit his lip, thinking of Hungary. Poland saw the sudden darkness in his expression and sobered a little.

"Seriously, though," he continued, "you're not going to get anywhere just worrying about us; like, we take care of ourselves here, and you can't look out for anybody else if you're getting beaten up yourself."

"Thank you, though, really," Prussia said softly, but Poland had already bent over the book again, searching for another white page to draw on.

* * *

A week had passed with no sign of Hungary before Prussia finally decided that it was safe to inquire after her. He spent a great deal of time deciding who would be best to ask, and had finally settled on Latvia, with whom he'd had only a very few dealings, but he seemed to exist in a constant state of anxiety and he thought it would be easy to get information out of him.

He cornered him while the smaller nation was dusting the living room, and tried to make himself seem as unintimidating as possible—a difficult feat, for a nation who since childhood had done his best to seem as intimidating and powerful as possible. Latvia jumped about a foot in the air and backed a few steps away whispering apologies before realizing who it was and calming down visibly.

"S-sorry," he stammered nervously, twisting the dustrag in his hands and staring over Prussia's shoulder rather than meeting his eyes. "I didn't know you were there."

Prussia tried to smile, though Latvia's manner was beginning to stress him out as well. "It's okay," he said, as reassuringly as he could. "I just had a question."

Latvia was staring at him as if waiting for him to make the next move, so Prussia went on, speaking with more confidence than he felt.

"It's about Hungary," he said. "Do you know where she is?"

Latvia's eyes, if possible, got even wider, but Prussia could not read the emotion there; fear? Surprise? Confusion? Sympathy, even? Whatever it was, he did not like it much.

"Have you seen her?" he asked again, as gently as he could, wondering as he did so if the other nations had been ordered not to tell him anything.

A long moment of agonizing silence passed, and then Latvia said nervously, "Haven't you heard?"

Prussia frowned. "Heard?"

"She's gone."

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_Yay, more Poland! I'm enjoying writing him. I hope this chapter doesn't feel like filler, at least too much. I wanted to bring back Poland just because I know Prussia was worried about him, and anyway he needed an opportunity to thank him!_

_Thank you to **rookanga, tapion580, ****Don't Tell Them I'm Not Real** and **Lothlorien93** for reviewing the last chapter! Thanks also to **Lothlorien93** for reviewing previous chapters, and for help with the Hungarian translation._

_Please keep reviewing—I so appreciate the feedback! Please continue to review as you read, and to new readers, I'd love to hear from you, and please favorite/follow if you're enjoying it!_

* * *

**_Author's note #2:_**

_On **tapion580's** suggestion, I wrote another one-shot called **Lass Mich Nicht Allein **that's basically just Germany coping with his brother's absence while Prussia is with Russia. I'm going to keep this story in Prussia's perspective since I've gotten this far with it, but I do agree that it'll be nice to see how Ludwig is doing. Technically I think it could stand alone but officially it's a companion piece to_ Behind the Berlin Wall_.__ I might update it once or twice again once this story progresses a little more. Thank you for the suggestion, **tapion580**! (So all of you should definitely go and read and review that!)_


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